


Overwatch, Actually

by Fight_The_Heteronormatives



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Adventuring, Everyone Is Gay, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, Hanzo Shimada is Bad at Feelings, Hanzo figures out his relationships while watching other people's relationships, Multi, Romance, Slice of Life, Sweet Jesse McCree, but not in a creepy way!, established relationships - Freeform, really bad seduction techniques
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-10-06 10:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20505113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fight_The_Heteronormatives/pseuds/Fight_The_Heteronormatives
Summary: ""...Cause you’re the only ten I see,” Baptiste finished lamely, and Lucio snorted, spraying soda. Baptiste preened at the success of the worst pick-up line in history. Hanzo just managed to swallow a groan."The development of Hanzo's relationship with the World's Dumbest Cowboy, as told through their interactions with other Overwatch couples.





	1. Can You Feel The Love Tonight?

“Hey, are you from Tennessee?”

_Thud._ Hanzo shut his book hard. He was _this close _to intervening for the sake of- of the _general public._ He glanced up from his armchair in the living room, aiming a glare at the loveseat taking up the main space. It lay in front of a holoscreen, which played some old movie; _The Great Escape,_ according to the titlecard he'd seen twenty minutes of terrible jokes ago.

The current objects of his ire were splayed over it comfortably, giggling to one another.

“Cause you’re the only ten I see,” Baptiste finished lamely, and Lucio snorted, spraying soda. Baptiste preened at the success of the worst pick-up line in history. Hanzo just managed to swallow a groan.

It was also the most _unnecessary _pick-up line in history, as the two of them had been dating for a month or so now. He only knew this because here, tucked away in an alcove with other misfits and outcasts, they didn’t bother to hide anything. They were comfortable enough to let it show.

Hanzo generally avoided the newer, younger agents. It wasn’t personal – it was just that most of his interactions were with the older agents, of whom Genji was one. He had no reason to exhaust his social battery unnecessarily. He didn’t have anything in common with the children (which they were to him, even though no actual children were active agents), so why would he engage with them?

Still, he never went out of his way to avoid them. He never left a room because they had entered it; something that right now he was regretting. They had energy, and life; they were stuffed full of that youthful, save-the-world positivity, and he enjoyed it. He was a little too old and jaded for that personally, but he liked to see it all the same.

However, there was only so much one person could be expected to take, and he had reached his limit.

“My turn,” Lucio said, turning to Baptiste with a serious expression. It was at odds with the soft pajamas they were wearing, and the soda and junk food tucked around them in their 'nest'.

“A sandwich walks into a bar and orders a snack. The bartender says, ‘no, sorry. We don’t serve food here.’”

Baptiste chuckled. Worse, it was sincere. They were genuinely enjoying spending their free time telling bad jokes to one another. Hanzo had even seen Lucio consulting with Commander Morrison, a supposed expert on terrible humor.

You know what? He didn’t have to deal with this. The living room was lovely; but even the kitchen or the gun range would be quieter than here. He stood, tucked the book under one arm, and picked up the half-forgotten tea on his armrest.

“Oh!” Lucio said, waving at him bashfully. “Hi, Han. Sorry. We didn’t see you there.”

“It’s alright,” he replied, “I was just leaving.”

He awkwardly made his way through to the kitchen. As he left, he heard Baptiste and Lucio start talking and laughing again. He didn’t mind – he didn’t know them. Everyone was uncomfortable when faced with strangers. Eventually, according to Genji, they would relax and warm up to him, just as they had warmed to himself. _And,_ he had added, _you've never even tried to kill them. I panicked so much when I first got here, I stabbed both Angela and Jesse. You won't do worse._

His faith was both heartwarming and completely biased. He wanted Hanzo to be better, so he refused to see him as worse. Still, he tried to live up to the expectation. 

He didn’t think Genji was right, however. He and his brother were very, very different. For one, if Genji had ever considered fratricide, he'd never acted on it. Of all the agents living here, new and old, he had the worst track record. He would bet on it. If they ever became any kinder to him, it would be more than he deserved.

Still, he did hope he was eventually familiar enough with them that he could be alone with Genji without the sharp looks and the check-ins. It made him happy that Hanzo had joined Overwatch. He didn’t want to ruin that, nor did he want anyone else to. 

…

In the newly-reformed Overwatch, training was a top priority. They all needed to learn, or in some cases relearn, how to work together. As such, these exercises were mandatory and occurred regularly.

Hanzo didn’t join in on them. Yet. He had been placed on probation. He was okay with that – it gave him time to watch the others work, to learn their patterns and habits. It meant he could better watch their backs later on; or, if necessary, stab them in the same place. He watched them from a walkway that wrapped around the training room at about thirty feet off the ground, allowing a perfect view of everything. 

Sometimes McCree joined him, when he himself wasn’t assigned to a team. He would yell encouragement and tips, some helpful and some debilitating, while his legs dangled off the edge of the railing. Generally, as per usual, he would make a nuisance of himself.

Jesse McCree was an odd man. He’d been nice enough when they’d met, though it had been reluctant on the cowboy’s part; and he was Genji’s closest friend. On their meeting, Genji had told Hanzo that McCree was one of the reasons he was alive. He had found him lying in the streets of Hanamura nearly dead. He had arranged his care, and had stuck with him through his volatile early years. As such, despite how annoying he could be, Hanzo never shooed him away.

There were two teams: the red team and the blue team. Each team had six members: one medic, one senior agent, and four junior agents. The team needed one sniper, one defensive attacker, and two defensive attackers, along with one guard, though this wasn’t a strict rule. The amount of people in any position, and the type of positions, could be changed at will.

The mission was essentially a game of Capture the Flag. Each team had one in their team color. The ‘guard’ was assigned to protect the flag. One won the game once their team had stolen the other team’s flag, and made it back to their own side.

At first, Hanzo had thought these exercises were unnecessary. However, as he watched, he saw that the training was essential, since these people only had real practice working alone. Or, in Hana and Genji's cases, within small, _very_ tight-knit groups. It certainly didn't help that most of these people were traumatized soldiers with trust issues. 

He watched the blue team today, not-so-casually eavesdropping on them. Genji had to play senior agent to the team, and it was almost funny to see. He had no practice being the responsible party; and yet, he now had to mind a group of rambunctious, hyper-intelligent targets.

Team Blue had Mercy on as the medic. Genji had insisted, bribing her with Swiss chocolate. He practically worshiped her, and with good reason. She was among the few agents Hanzo had added to his 'sane and competent' list. (This list was very, very short. In fact, he himself wasn't even on it). Also included in his team was Lucio, Hana, Lena, and Brigette. Hanzo would’ve picked the same people, so he thought Genji would be alright; provided he could keep them under control.

Then it was revealed the senior agent for Team Red would be Shrike – Ana Amari. _Then _Genji became slightly nervous.

She chose Pharah for her team, of course, along with Agent Zaryanova, Jean-Baptiste, Reinhardt, and the Lindholm’s adopted Bastion unit. Reinhardt was not a junior agent, but his age put him roughly on par with them, so Genji accepted his inclusion.

On paper, they shouldn’t have managed to stop Genji’s team. But something had him feeling off. Ana’s calmness and confidence, coupled with the individual strengths from each person, twisted the odds in their favor. He wasn’t comfortable betting on either of them.

The game commenced. Genji had made himself flag guard, trying to cover the most important part of the match himself. He made Brigette and Lena defense, one an immovable obstruction and one an unstoppable force. Lucio and Hana, being so intense and driven, got put on offense; he liked that Genji was playing to their strong suits. Mercy stood behind the defensive line, but close to the boundary, so that she could help the others.

He had no sniper. He was clearly playing a defensive game, and decided to reinforce his line instead. It was a good set-up. Really. Not great, but better than he would’ve expected from Genji and the kids.

It took maybe two minutes for Ana to rip it apart.

Bastion played the guard. He probably wouldn’t even need to do anything, instead just sitting quietly while Ganymede flitted around his head. Ana, of course, was the sniper. Instead of letting Baptiste take a backseat, she gave him a pulse rifle and placed him on the boundary line. He had been a Talon operative, so he could fight as well as he could fix. He never got to see where she set everyone else until it was all over.

As Lucio ran back toward the boundary after sneaking past Bastion, Ana shot an EMP into his legs. He went down hard, and while Hana grabbed the flag in her MEKA, Zarya threw theirs like a javelin over the line. Alarms blared, signaling the end of the fight.

“TIME!” Commander Morrison yelled. “The match goes to red!”

Lucio sat up, grinning. He was in surprisingly good spirits for someone who’d just been shot. Just a moment behind the end-of-match alarms blared, the holographic scoreboard hanging by the ceiling displayed _Eliminated: Lucio _right underneath _Eliminated: Genji._

Speaking of Genji, he walked up to them shaking his head. He limped slightly from being flung into a wall. Reinhardt did an excellent battering ram impression, and Genji was probably going to have to visit Torbjörn’s forge later for repairs.

“Are you alright?” he asked, resting a hand on Lucio’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” he answered, “Lemme just-” he patted down his legs, found the EMP, and flung it as far away from him as he could. That was the procedure.

Then, Lucio pulled the skates off, _and took his lower legs off with it. _

Hanzo blinked a few times to make sure he was seeing correctly. That was…unexpected. He watched as Lucio patted each leg down, looking for damage, and then strapped them back on.

_“You_ alright?” McCree asked, having noticed his expression. Hanzo had forgotten he was there.

“Yes,” he answered, “I was just unaware of his…condition.”

He tapped his leg, and nodded to where Lucio still sat.

“Oh,” he said, “Yeah, he doesn’ really advertise. It’s from his diabetes.”

“He’s diabetic?” he asked.

“Yeah. Ya know his story, right? Grew up dirt poor, started a revolution?”

He nodded.

“Well, one of the issues he had growin’ up was getting’ ahold of insulin. His family could barely afford food, let alone _meds._ He wound up tryin’ ta ration it. It didn’t go well.”

For the first time in a while, Hanzo was pleased about his own upbringing. Things were rough, sure, but at least he and Genji had never wanted for anything they needed; not food, nor medicine, nor education. This was a stark reminder that his childhood could’ve been far worse.

“It’s a real shame,” McCree said. He was looking down at the arena again. “It’s one thing to be dyin’ of a disease no-one can fix. There’s nobody to blame, then. But when it’s somethin’ with a cure that people won’t give to you, because of somethin’ you never had a say in and can’t control? That’s somethin’ else.”

They were interrupted by a chorus of “Ew!” and “C’mon, guys, get a room!”

Hanzo looked back to see Baptiste had jump-started Lucio’s legs again and helped him to his feet, only to dip him into a kiss. This was followed by Hana yelling “He’s not even on your team! Is that allowed?”

This story had a happy ending for Lucio. He was glad. Many others didn’t get the same kind of joy.


	2. A Whole New World.

_“Australia?”_ he asked, incredulous.

Winston raised an eyebrow (could it be considered an eyebrow when his whole body was covered in hair?), poorly hiding a smile.

“Yes. We have operatives that side, and we need the money. It should be an easy enough mission for an assassin – especially with help.”

Hanzo pursed his lips, but nodded.

A milk run. That’s what this was. They were sending him on a small-scale, funds-gathering mission. Which was fair, if he was being honest. They were probably testing him on simpler, less-compromising missions before building him up to the bigger stuff. Still, he'd expected something tougher, like a test of skill, for his first mission. That was how his clan had done it. 

“Understood,” he said, “However, I don’t believe my usual attire will suffice. Do I have time to pick up adequate replacements?”

“No need,” he replied, neatening the files on his desk. He was surprisingly gentle and careful for someone with such huge hands. “We have a tailor. She’s volunteered to equip our agents with everything they require. She’ll just need your measurements.”

He nodded. Professional. He liked this. “Time of departure?”

“Main hanger, seven AM tomorrow morning. Your clothes will be waiting; you just need toiletries, weaponry, and whatever else you deem necessary. Remember that you’ll need to travel light.”

“Mission details?”

“They’ll be sent to your personal holopad.”

“I don’t have a personal holopad.”

Winston pulled open a drawer, plucked a ‘pad out of a stack of identical devices, and handed it to him.

“Merry very late Christmas. The tailor is down the hall from here, in the storage facility next to Torbjörn’s workshop. You don’t have to go now, but she’ll need some hours to prepare and would rather not work through the night.”

Hanzo nodded again. “Very well. I will see you tomorrow, then.”

Winston nodded back, smiling at him. He probably meant for it to be reassuring, but his canines were as long as Hanzo’s right hand, and the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. His office chair creaked loudly as he turned back to his work. He muttered to himself, tapped something on his comically large holographic keyboard, and slid his tiny glasses up his nose.

He turned to leave, before remembering his promise to Genji about making friends. He’d sworn he’d try, even if he hadn't seen the point.

“Thank you,” he said, before he could lose his nerve, and left before he could see Winston’s expression.

As he strolled to the storage room, he thought about the conversation. When Genji had told him some of the Overwatch agents were ‘odd’, he hadn’t quite communicated the scope. He had expected eccentric mad scientists and muscly idiots. He hadn’t been completely wrong there, but the hyper-intelligent moon-born gorilla had come as a bit of a shock.

The room itself could’ve housed barracks for about twenty men. It had cement walls and a slightly musty smell, like the rest of the base, but it was spotlessly clean. In the middle of the room was a platform just an inch or so off the ground and made of wood. It was large enough for four people to stand up straight on it, so long as they liked each-other a lot. 

Three mirrors stood in a semi-circle around one side of the platform, with lights set into the rims of it. Aside fro a space clearly meant for people to step on and off the platform, it was surrounded by a rail at about waist-height. To the left, a mahogany work desk bore the weight of a sewing machine and piles upon piles of fabric. Rails were set along the walls of the room at about waist height, covered in more fabrics; cotton, silk, kevlar, hemp, wool, and a few even he didn't recognize. Sketches and designs were pinned to the walls on actual paper.

The tailor stood at the desk, rifling around for something. She was a deceptively plain-looking woman. She stood a few inches taller than him, and was older than most of the agents. Somewhere in her fifties or sixties, he thought. She had white skin starting to resemble scrunched-up tissue paper thanks to age, and a neat, casual appearance. Her hair was honey-colored and streaked with white. When she turned to see who’d walked in, her gaze became stern.

“Shimada Hanzo?” she asked. She had an accent of some kind; German, maybe.

“Yes,” he replied. “I assume you’re the tailor?”

“Ingrid Lindholm,” she answered, “Stand on stand.”

She pointed to the platform in the middle of the room. He did as she said.

“Good,” she said, continuing to search her desk for something. “Strip.”

He’d done this before. Almost everything the Shimadas wore was custom. He tossed his _kyudo-gi,_ sash, and _yugake_ onto the rail to his right, leaving his _hakama _and socks on. He left his boots at the base of the platform.

By the time he was done, she’d found what she was looking for – a measuring tape, a pen, and a clipboard.

She stalked around him, wrapping the tape along certain parts of his body and stretching it over others. Each time she measured, she would pluck the pen from between her teeth and scribble something down. Then she’d move on. All the while, he stood as still as he could.

“I know the name Lindholm already,” he said. Genji’s voice spoke in his head. _Make friends._

“My husband is Torbjörn. Next door. My daughter is Brigette.” She replied matter-of-factly, not looking up from where she was wrapping the tape around his waist.

“Family tradition?” he asked.

“No,” she said, “But family can be trusted. None of us are meant to be here, and we need only those we can rely on.”

He nodded stiffly, feeling as if that last part had been aimed at him directly. He was content to let the silence return, but surprisingly, she picked it up from there.

“Your clothing. Is important, yes?”

“It is designed for _Kyūdō._ Japanese archery. It is very important to me.”

“Hmm,” she said. “It will need improvement. Half your torso is visible. You will be shot.”

“I’m too fast.”

“You’re too _stubborn,”_ she corrected. “No worries. The clothing is good. Worn, but strong. You keep it; I will just add armor.”

He didn’t like the idea of her messing with his clothing, but he supposed it was better than her designing all new clothing for him without his input. He'd take it; just so long as she didn't make him look like a German crusader. 

She surprised him again. “You are Genji’s brother, yes?”

He paused. “Yes.”

“I like Genji,” she said, moving to behind him. He wanted to turn with her, but forced himself to stay still. She drew the tape measure across his shoulder blades, parallel to the ground. “Everyone had to babysit Brigette. But he liked it. He was good to her.”

The tape measure snapped back with a harsh _clack._ He flinched. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He didn’t know what she was getting at, but he wanted to turn around. All of a sudden, he didn’t like having his back to her.

“You did that to him?”

He found his own eyes in the mirror in front of him. He looked manic. _Get a grip,_ he told himself.

“Yes,” he answered. Excuses bubbled up in his throat, constricting his airway. _The clan would have killed us both, he was a disgrace, I didn’t have a choice-._ With difficulty, he swallowed them all down. He was many things, but a coward was not one of them.

His reflection looked slightly less panicked.

“Do you plan on trying again?”

No, wait, the panic was back. “No,” he answered firmly, voice tight. “Absolutely not.”

She came around, stretching his arm out and placing the measure at his shoulder. She drew it out all the way to his wrist, then turned to look him in the eye.

“I believe you,” she said at last, glancing at the measurement. “But know this: if you hurt him – or any other agent – I will find you. I will skin you. And I will turn your skin into a new pair of leather gloves for Brigette. _Understood?”_

“Understood.”

One part of him was offended at the threat against his life. A much larger part recognized the threat as genuine, and began rapidly trying to strategize. He didn’t want to disappoint Genji. He didn’t want to have to kill Ingrid Lindholm, either, but he knew idle threats when he heard them. This was not one.

_Could_ he even kill her? She had no weapons. Little muscle definition that suggested training. She certainly didn’t telegraph prior fighting experience. But to leave, he would have to go through Torbjörn, Brigette, Reinhardt, and most likely everyone else. And if he wanted to run, Athena would not give him a head start.

He was off the platform before she had even finished telling him, “Dismissed.” He hurriedly dressed, stepping into his shoes and clipping the attached knee guards back into place in a practiced, smooth motion. He was still tightening his sash as he rounded the corner, and almost ran straight into McCree.

“Woah,” he stepped back, not expecting the near collision. “Where’s the fire?”

“What fire?” Hanzo asked, annoyed. “There is no fire. Is there?”

“No, no,” he answered. “It’s an expression. It means ‘why’re you runnin’ like you found an adder in your sleeping bag’?”

“I am not _running_.”

“Sure.”

He walked past Hanzo and inside the room he’d just burst out of. Did McCree need a fitting, too?

“Mrs. Lindholm!” he heard McCree croon. “Why, yer lookin’ lovelier than-”

_“Bah!_ Look at your serape! Why with all the holes?! _Off!_ Take the rotten thing _off!”_

He chuckled and said something about buying him dinner first, which got him an even louder response. Meanwhile, Hanzo jarred himself back into motion, power-walking and not _running_ to the (relative) safety of his room.

…

Australia was hot and Hanzo hated it.

Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration. It wasn’t the worst he’d ever suffered through. Summer in Hanamura, and anywhere in Japan, could be hot, moist, and practically unbearable. The Watchpoint in Gibraltar rested on a cliffside that opened to the Indian Ocean, so that could be bad too. But Australia was the kind of bone-dry desert that seemed to suck the moisture right out of your body. He felt like he was being mummified alive.

He could already tell that, even if the climate wasn’t the _worst_ part of the mission, it would be high up on the list.

McCree took a deep breath in and sighed contentedly. He stepped out onto the red ground next to him, off the ramp of the orca. He, it turns out, was Hanzo’s ‘help’. Brilliant.

As the orca flew away, he subconsciously took stock of their situation. It was just him and McCree, with a bow, thirty-five arrows, and a revolver with unknown quantities of ammunition in terms of weaponry. They each had their toiletries, the clothes on their backs, their holopads, and the loose promise that the agents out here would find them before they died of heatstroke.

McCree sat down right where he stood, leaning back on the featureless ground. He resituated himself so that he could rest his head on his serape, and his hat – professionally repaired by Mrs. Lindholm – rested over his face. He crossed his ankles and put his hands behind his head like he was on a beach.

“Wake me up when they show,” he said. Hanzo squashed down the urge to kick him.

“How prompt are they usually?” he asked, trying not to sound too antagonistic too early on.

McCree chuckled, though not in an unfriendly way. “We’re going to die before they find us. I’d get comfy.”

They sat out there for about an hour. It was hellish. After only a few minutes, Hanzo elected to join McCree on the ground; though he stayed awake to act as guard. The sky was such a bright, saturated shade of blue it almost hurt to look at. The sun was as merciful as a slave driver, whipping out hot rays to scald and blister their skin. There wasn’t even any wind to take the edge off the heat, or to offer some kind of noise.

The red dirt, identical in every direction, revealed nothing he could use as a landmark should they need to make their way out alone. If they wanted to move even a little, they would have to wait until nightfall; when he could think straight and the stars could act as a guide.

He hated flat land. He grew up around mountains. Out here, it felt like there was nowhere to hide. Like he and all his sins were incriminatingly visible. That feeling, combined with the silence, set him perpetually on edge.

For once, McCree fit in perfectly.

His buffed, bronze armor had built-in ventilation. Even the chaps and boots served only to protect from the sun, and not to lock the heat in. His serape – a different one this time, black with gold embroidery – kept the sun off him, and his hat protected his face and hid his identity.

Mrs. Lindholm had fulfilled her promise to meddle in his closet – but she'd been courteous. The majority of the clothing was his own; the only difference was a tight, Kevlar-layered, long-sleeved undershirt that went up to his neck, and a pair of black riding gloves.

She wasn't alone in her meddling. Just before he’d left, Hana Song had spotted him and asked where they were going. When he answered, she grimaced, and plopped her baseball cap on his head.

“So your brain doesn’t fry,” she said, "I've been down under. You're gonna wish for some kinda protection." And then went back to whatever she’d been doing. It was oddly touching, in a condescending way. Maybe Genji was right; the others were warming up to him. Slightly.

With nothing else to do and no sign from McCree that their situation was truly dire, he pulled out his datapad to review the mission parameters.

They were collecting a bounty on one John Montgomery, a serial child abductor, and one with a deep connection to Australia’s budding slave rings. He was Caucasian, in his fifties, of average intelligence, and had last been seen just outside of Junkertown. The bounty was for ten million US dollars.

The two Australian operatives had already tracked his current location down, and had cleared out any other bounty hunters in the area; so, they could simply swoop in and take him out. Winston had spoken with them beforehand, and they were okay with a forty-sixty split. For Overwatch’s sake. The organization seemed to acquire a strange loyalty from its members. He couldn’t see why.

Out of boredom and the hope that it would shed some new light on the mission, he pulled up their files. First was _Jamison Fawkes:_

**Code Name: **Junkrat.**  
Age:** 25 years.  
**Height:** 6”5’ (196 cm).  
**Weight:** 155 _lbs._ (70 kg).  
**Base of operations:** Junkertown, Australia (formerly). The Wasteland, Australia.

**Biography:** _Arsonist and demolitions expert. Unstable, but generally manageable. Knowledgeable in radiation and a bold combatant. Note: suffers from a manic personality and adjusts poorly in social situations, as a result of Australia's toxic environment. _

Next to the information was a picture of a certifiable madman. Sharp, pointed features, ash, coal, and dirt-streaked skin, and spiky blonde hair. One tip of the hair looked like it might have been burning slightly. His eyes were an unnatural yellow color – a strange, noted side-effect of the radiation poisoning everyone here suffered.

Second was _Mako Rutledge:_

**Code Name: **Roadhog.**  
Age:** 48 years.  
**Height:** 7”3’ (221 cm).  
**Weight:** 550 _lbs._ (250 kg).  
**Base of operations:** Junkertown, Australia (formerly). The Wasteland, Australia.

**Biography:** _Former bodyguard and enforcer. Former member of the Australian Liberation Front._ _Note: suffers from lung deterioration and post-traumatic stress. __Do not separate from Fawkes!_

The picture next to him was of a terrifying, pig-themed gas mask. No face.

Curious, he tried to access his own biography. If he was on a mission, he was now an agent; so, his had to exist somewhere, right?

It was futile. He couldn’t find it. There was probably a rule against agents seeing their own files somewhere. Sighing, he was about to put the pad away; then stopped. He glanced at McCree, still resting. Before he could chicken out, he searched McCree’s name.

**Code Name: **Deadeye.**  
Age:** 37 years.  
**Height:** 6”1’ (185 cm).  
**Weight:** 180 _lbs._ (82 kg).  
**Base of operations:** Santa Fe, New Mexico (formerly). Gibraltar.

**Biography:** _Expert marksman and former Blackwatch operative. Works best alone or paired. Old fashioned, but highly capable. Note: no physical or mental chronic illnesses, but has a prosthetic left arm. _

“Hmm,” he thought to himself. He hadn’t known he and McCree were so close in age. A birthday wasn’t listed, but there was only about a year between them, Hanzo being older. Also, ‘Deadeye?’. Where was that from, and why did no-one ever use it? He closed the files.

“McCree?” he asked. Almost immediately, McCree lifted his hat and glanced at him.

So, he hadn’t been asleep. Good to know.

“Have you worked with these operatives before?”

“Yeah, once or twice,” he answered, settling back down. “They’re decent folk. Out a’ their minds, but so’s everyone else out here. S’ long as you don’t put yourself between one or the other, you’re good.”

He considered this. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, “Are they close?”

McCree chuckled. “All pard’ners are. Me ‘n Genji were nigh on inseparable back in the day. Same went for Commander Morrison and Commander Reyes. And you _still_ can’t separate Ana from Reinhardt.”

“Really?” he asked, “You and he were close?”

“Yup. What’s got you askin’ all these questions?”

He paused, and pursed his dry lips. “Curiosity. What… was he like? Back then?”

McCree sat up properly. He moved his hat back onto his head, and studied him.

“Angry,” he said at last. “Violent. He wanted revenge. I don’ blame him, really, and I was just bloodthirsty enough back then to get it.”

Hanzo nodded. He’d expected as much. But a few things weren’t adding up to him.

“Do you know why he got back in touch with me?” he asked.

McCree frowned. “You don’t know?”

He shook his head. “I never got a proper explanation from him. My first thought had been a plan to kill me. But if he were going to try, he would’ve by now.”

“An’ you still showed up? Do you _want _to die?”

Hanzo didn’t grace that with an answer. Instead, he huffed and glanced out at the desert again, looking for a sign of their transport.

“Hey,” McCree said. “I’m serious. We’ll be working together out here, which means I’m gonna have to trust you. I need to know how hard you plan on fightin' if we get attacked.”

“Believe me, I’ll fight,” he snapped. “And no, I don’t want to die. So, you’ll be _fine.”_

After that, they lapsed back into a tense silence. The sun continued to beat down on them apathetically, and every few minutes, Hanzo had to wipe his brow to keep sweat from dripping into his eyes. He was quickly growing thirsty, and reached for the bottle on his sash. Normally, he filled it with saké. However, he’d figured going into the desert, he could stand to stay sober in exchange for staying alive.

McCree sighed. “Listen, what I said be-”

“Shh!” Hanzo hissed, sitting upright.

“Did you just _shush-”_

“No,” Hanzo snapped. “Listen.”

McCree froze. He could barely hear it, but the intense quiet from being so far from civilization heightened the sound. A growl, low and deep. A little like a car engine.

Wordlessly, they stood. Hanzo drew his bow, and McCree Peacemaker. They drifted back to back, stepping lightly and soundlessly, save for the slight jingle of McCree’s spurs. That sound was going to drive him up the wall.

He looked around. He couldn’t see anything, but the sound got louder. Then the ground beneath his feet shifted, and he leaped aside as fast as he could.

Fortunately, McCree did the same. They spun around and watched the earth in that one place shift, rising up slightly, then settling back down. It happened again, slightly more exaggerated, then eased itself back.

They shared a look, argument forgotten. It seemed like the ground was _breathing. _

Then, the ground rose again, and spilled over like a volcano spilling lava. Clumps of dry dirt split around something small, wet, and pink.

McCree leaned in closer, transfixed. Hanzo held his ground, but couldn’t help but lean in a little too.

The pink thing twitched. Short little whiskers burst out of it, and a little more of it became visible.

It was a nose. The nose of some odd, dog-sized animal. It had a pointed tip and glistened in the light.

Then, without any warning, a head burst forth like some monstrous flower. He flinched backwards, and McCree cursed.

It had a pointed and triangular head. Its small, beady black eyes shifted continuously. It’s face was covered in course, grey-brown fur, and a huge pair of pink, paper-thin ears were perched on its head, each easily large enough to be used as a hand-held fan. They rotated continuously, never stopping, always moving.

That wasn’t all. Skin and flesh hung loosely from its skull like bedsheets pegged to a clothesline. A pair of huge, yellow teeth peaked out from its top snout.

It was the source of the growling.

“It’s a junkrat,” McCree whispered. “Don’t. Move.”

Hanzo stayed absolutely still while the rat continued to growl, swiveling its head as much as possible while it was stuck in the ground.

Hanzo caught sight of the ground behind McCree slowly starting to shift. He glanced around as subtly as possible, and saw the same thing about twenty meters to their right.

Behind him, out of sight, he heard another growling sound start up. _Fuck_.

A screech filled the air. It came from the thing in between them, and it sounded high-pitched and almost human. Like the crying of a little girl. The other two shifts in the ground burst out and joined the cry.

The creature lunged out, and spun towards McCree. Before it made it two feet, and arrow was sticking out of its head and a bullet hole had replaced one eye. Somehow, it managed to drag itself another three feet towards McCree before collapsing.

The other two scrambled free. Before they could even react, a shadow fell over Hanzo’s head from behind, and he saw McCree’s eyes go wide.

“Run!” he yelled, and took off to his right. Hanzo bolted in the other direction, pushing himself as hard as possible. Going from an hour lazing around, to running as fast as he could was hard; but he didn't dare ignore the warning. 

_KA-BOOM!_

The soundwave of the explosion pushed him right off his feet, and he wound up sprawled in the dirt. His ears rang hard. He didn’t stay down for long; as soon as he could feel the ground underneath him again, he scrambled upwards.

He turned, and saw the ground burned black. The culprit was a tyre, ringed with spikes, and still burning from the explosion. It lay on its side between the rats, smoldering. The nauseating smell of burned rubber and rotting meat climbed up his nose and stabbed him between the eyes.

McCree was some ways away, being stalked by the third junkrat_. _As it lunged for him and McCree raised Peacemaker, a massive fishhook made of rusting metal flew through the air, tethered to the edge of a chain. It hooked around the fat, rotten belly of the beast, and yanked it off course. This gave McCree a good chance to put a bullet through each eye.

“Whoo-hoo!”

The cry came from the source of the hook; a large, heavy truck. Its engine was still running, and it had to be the source of the growling he’d heard from behind him. It _wasn’t _another beast – it was the agents here in Australia.

“McCree!” one man yelled. It was Junkrat – _The_ Junkrat, Jamison Fawkes. He was skinny and lanky, but tall, and he flung himself right at McCree, knocking him off his feet. “There ya are, ya bloody bastard!”

“Junk! How’s life?” he chuckled.

Junkrat yanked him back to his feet, patting him hard on the back. Hanzo walked up to them, setting his bow back.

“You alright, Han?” McCree called, checking him over. He nodded sharply, studying Fawkes closely.

“Junky, this is Hanzo,” he introduced, gesturing to him. “He’s here ta help.”

Fawkes perked up, and leaned into his personal space, running his eyes up and down Hanzo’s body. He refused to lean back, and glared up at him.

“Ha!” Fawkes laughed, far too loudly for the small distance between them. “This one’s a real charmer, ain’t he? Lucky he’s pretty!”

Hanzo’s jaw dropped. McCree laughed at him, which was just plain rude. Before Hanzo could do something rash, Fawkes leaped back towards the car. It had once been teal blue, but the rust had since taken over. It was beaten out of shape. It ran on tyres – actual rubber tyres – and probably used gasoline. It was an old Jeep model, with a front driver’s compartment and a wide back storage space.

In said space, a massive man sat, reeling the fishhook back to his hands. He was built like a _sumo_ wrestler, with hands the size of dinner plates and a large gut. This must be Roadhog – Mako Rutledge. He sat amid boxes of TNT, dynamite, and actual black powder. Packs and boxes with less obvious contents were also present.

He grunted a greeting, and McCree tipped his hat. He climbed up and sat on the opposite side of Rutledge, leaving the closest empty place for Hanzo.

“Get in!” Fawkes yelled, scrambling over the driver’s compartment and into the driver’s seat. “C’mon! Daylight’s burnin’!”

With a sigh, he clambered in. He flinched as Fawkes slammed the door, and hit the gas.

This car was old. Not just ‘no hover technology’ old, but ‘no sonar and crash prevention’ old. The only thing keeping this car from crashing into another at one hundred miles per hour, was some white lines scribbled onto the tar and a mutual agreement with thousands of strangers not to play bumper cars. He barely dared breathe the whole drive.

They drove until the sun started setting. The scenery remained standard, and even grew redder. The horizon was on fire, with bloody reds and oranges.

The sky turned the color of dirty dishwater, and it soon cooled down enough for him to breathe correctly. He stopped sweating, and the breeze helped with the temperature. He glanced over at McCree, and saw him holding his hat to his chest to keep it from flying off. His brunette hair waved freely in the wind, and he kept a white knuckled grip on his serape. He caught Hanzo’s gaze, and winked.

He turned back to the horizon.

Then, as if they had traveled through a portal, they drove into the outskirts of a suburbia.

It wasn’t much of a suburbia. The paint had peeled off the walls in sheets, the fences and gates were broken, and several structures were crumbling or collapsed. Barbed wire, boarded windows, and other such improvised armaments had replaced curtains and lawn decorations. Fires burnt in backyards, trash lined the street, and the whole place smelt like burning meat, rubber, and filth.

It was charming.

About twenty minutes later, they stopped at a smallish house. They drove into the driveway, and the garage swung open for them. They had wrapped the rim in barbed wire, but as it lifted, they could ride in unobstructed.

“Welcome to our humblest abode!” Fawkes announced as he cut the engine.

Hanzo wasted no time in hopping out. His muscles ached; he had been stiffly holding himself taut the whole trip, waiting for the engine to blow up underneath him.

“Aren’t we forgetting something?” he asked, stretching. “A certain bounty, perhaps?”

McCree landed next to him with a thud and a jangle of spurs. He chuckled, as if what Hanzo had said was funny.

“Right,” Fawkes mocked, “As if we’re just gonna roll up ta his place in the dead a’ night ‘n _not_ die _painfully_.”

He raised an eyebrow as Fawkes opened a door on the side wall. He didn’t check to see if they followed him through.

“He don’t mean no offense,” McCree drawled from next to him. “He forgets somedays that not everyone grew up ‘round these parts. Those junkrats from earlier come out in full force at night, an’ a couple more…dangerous things, too. It ain’t worth the risk. C’mon; let’s give Mako some room to move.”

They walked up to the doorway. Hanzo turned to glance at Rutledge, who maneuvered into a low standing position in the cab, minding the ceiling. The car creaked ominously in complaint, and when he hit the ground, Hanzo swore he felt it rumble. 

They moved from the door into a living room-slash-kitchen area. A set of boarded windows kept the setting sun out for the most part, but rays managed to slip through, throwing patterns on the far wall. Off to the right lay the bedroom, which was used only as a storage area, and in front of them lay the bathroom.

They gladly accepted Fawkes’s invitation to use said bathroom; it had been a long, uncomfortable drive. He wondered how they had functional plumbing, given that the whole continent was a dystopian wasteland, but it wasn’t a priority and he could barely keep his eyes open; so, he didn’t ask.

After that, they were herded back into the living room. It had a couch and a large bean bag circled around a box TV. Weapons of many kinds were mounted on the wall, clashing horribly with the floral wallpaper. There was a bat with giant rusty nails poking out of it, sitting next to a grenade launcher and a speargun.

Off to the side lay the kitchen, which had cans and tubs of non-perishables stacked high on the tables.

In the middle of the floor was a trap door. It looked to be the only thing built after 2020. They descended a metal staircase into a bunker, which was about the size of the living room above. It had two queen-sized beds pressed against the far wall, separated by a nightstand. A chest was pressed against the base of each bed.

To the right stood a camping table with a gas stove and several cans of food. To the left was a holoscreen showing camera feeds from the outside and inside of the house. On the walls were a rack where their hosts offloaded their armor. On the side of the left bed sat a wicker chair. There were vents built into the ceiling, so small that nothing bigger than a hamster could creep through.

The trapdoor closed behind him, and he caught the unmistakable _hiss_ of the room becoming airtight. Air started to pour out of the ventilation shafts.

“What’s that for?” he asked, backing up a step.

Fawkes glanced up. “Oh. Roadie’s lungs rotted away thanks ta the radiation. He needs ‘is mask to stroll around upstairs. In here, though, we pump the good stuff so he can breathe right.”

He gave Hanzo a slightly apologetic smile. “Didn’t mean to scare ya, mate.”

He wanted to say he wasn’t scared – and he hadn’t been – but it wasn’t worth the energy. He simply nodded his thanks.

They talked for a bit. They were told they could use the bathroom in the night, but had to keep the trapdoor closed as much as possible. They could shower fine, but for anything else, they had to use the gallons of fresh water in storage. The tap water was _not_ to be trusted.

Hanzo made up the bed, fluffing the pillows. Dust covered the whole thing like an extra blanket. He glanced over at the men, and saw them strip down far further than he was comfortable with. Fawkes went down to his boxers, and Rutledge to a pair of pants and socks. He slipped off his mask, and Hanzo took a look at his face, since he hadn’t seen it before.

He was Māori. He had full lips, a broad nose, and clever, slanted eyes.His skin was a dark olive color. Hanzo had stayed in New Zealand for a time while avoiding his clan, and he would put money on it. He pulled his hair down, and Hanzo only now noticed it was silvery-white, even though he didn’t look much older than forty.

He glanced over at him, and gave him a quick up-and-down look. His eyes were a perfectly normal dark brown, which made sense; his age suggested he’d already been an adult when the crisis began. Only the youngsters got that patented, toxic yellow eye color. He wasn’t judgmental – his face was perfectly neutral. Hanzo looked away first.

“So,” McCree drawled. He’d stripped down to his cotton shirt, military pants, and socks. His hat sat on his folded-up clothes, next to his boots. Seeing him without his hat on was odd. His brown hair fell over his eyes and curled underneath his ears.

“What do you want to do about the bed?”

In response, Hanzo looked at Junkrat. “Do you have a couch? Or cot?”

Fawkes cackled like that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Nope! Try using _the buddy system_. The pure oxygen in here’s gonna freeze ya ta death!”

The elation he said that with made Hanzo uneasy, though McCree just pursed his lips, obviously trying to hide a smile.

He frowned, refusing to be baited. He turned to McCree. “I am taking the right side of the bed. Keep to yours.”

Fawkes cackled again, and a deep chuckle from Rutledge accompanied it.

Hanzo curled up under the sheets, trying not to cough at the dust he stirred up. The other side of the bed dipped, and he felt warmth slowly seep through the sheets to his back. Even though the bed was big, they were too, and their backs were only an inch apart. His skin itched. He felt hypersensitive and exposed.

McCree dropped off to sleep in a heartbeat, but he did not. He stayed awake, keeping an eye on their hosts. On his side of the bed, he was facing Fawkes and Rutledge. If they caught him, he could just pass it off as the way he was lying.

He didn’t really know what to make of them. Not just them as people – _that _made some sense – but how they meshed together. They were polar opposites. Yet, they seemed to work well.

Rutledge slept plainly. He lay on his back with his arms tucked into his sides, soldier style. His head lay facing in their direction. He closed his eyes, and simply passed out. The only movement was in his gut; a slow rise and fall of his breathing.

If he thought Fawkes would settle in his sleep, he was wrong. In the five minutes where Hanzo kept an eye on them, he moved from tucked into Rutledge’s side, to lying curled on his stomach, and then lastly wrapping around his head protectively. He twitched and snored, mumbling in his sleep.

Rutledge’s eyes snapped open, staring into his own without moving any other part of his body. His heart valiantly flailed about in his chest, and his breath caught in his throat.

Rutledge’s eyes didn’t shift to his. It was as if he’d been staring at him from under his eyelids, and had simply opened them. It made the hair on his body stand up straight.

His eyes narrowed. He turned, shifting his back to Hanzo, and curled around Fawkes protectively. His massive size effectively blocked Fawkes from Hanzo’s sight; all he could see were a few greasy strands of blond hair.

Hanzo shuddered involuntarily. Either accidentally, or thinking Hanzo was cold, McCree shuffled marginally closer. He couldn’t bring himself to be offended.

…

The day began terribly. Read: _Amazingly._

But you’d have to kill him to get him to admit it.

Hanzo woke slowly. This was surprising for him. He wasn’t often a dreamer, barring the occasional prophetic dream courtesy of the dragons. He normally woke quickly, snapping back to reality instantly. It was a habit left over from training.

But today was different.

He had tucked himself into the duvet tightly, and his body was warm. Only his eyes and nose poked out into the cool air. He was wrapped up as tightly as a butterfly in a cocoon, and moving was a daunting, far-away concept. Amid the warmth was an especially Warm Thing, pressed against him in one long line, head to toe. He curled closer, truly comfortable for the first time in a long time.

Then the Warm Thing shifted, in a motion that felt and sounded much like a sigh, and his whole body went stiff.

His eyes snapped open. He was suddenly very awake. He was wrapped up in McCree completely, arms curled around his body in a death grip. His face had pressed itself into a soft, hairy chest, and he could feel the _ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump_ of a heartbeat against his cheek. He could smell sweat, and aftershave, along with worn leather and gunpowder. His legs were boxed in by McCree, so that if Hanzo rolled onto his back and brought him with him, McCree would be straddling him.

His face went bright red.

Suddenly, McCree’s breath hitched. He shuffled again, this time more purposefully, and Hanzo’s body finally responded. He ripped his arms back and tore the duvet off of him, letting the cold rob him of any residual drowsiness. He leapt to his feet in a bid to avoid…whatever that had been.

McCree was much slower, likely having just woken.

“Hmm?” McCree rolled up onto his elbows, confused. “‘S _cold_.”

“Get up!” he snapped, “We need to get up. We have a bounty to collect.”

McCree moaned a complaint, lying back down. Even though he remained mortified, his body was very interested in that sound. The cold air hadn’t done as good a job as he’d hoped. Thank God Fawkes and Rutledge’s bed lay empty.

Frustrated, and desperate to focus on something else, Hanzo hissed, “Up!”

He grabbed the duvet and yanked. It came off easily. McCree cringed, curling up on himself with another groan that went straight to Hanzo’s groin. Not good.

McCree propped himself up on his elbows again to glare at him. His shirt had ridden up, showing off his lower abdomen. His middle wasn’t defined like some of the younger members, but he was by no means out of shape. He couldn’t be, with his day job. Dark hair trailed to below the waistline of his pants, and an old scar from a bullet wound rested under his bellybutton. His biceps pulled his shirt taught around his shoulders.

Hanzo raised an eyebrow rather than letting his eyes flick to his pants like they wanted to.

“If ya give the duvet back,” McCree drawled, voice still gravely from sleep. “I’ll let you take a picture.”

_“Do you want this bounty or not?”_ he asked, fully aware of how condescending he sounded.

“Fine,” McCree complained. “’M on my way.”

Hanzo pointedly threw the blanket into a corner as he left, well out of McCree’s reach. He clambered up the stairs, the very early light at the top telling him the hatch was open. He could hear pots and pans clanging from the kitchen. The temperature was still cool, so the sun mustn’t have risen yet.

The kitchen showed Rutledge sitting on a barstool far too small for him and creaking concerningly, while Fawkes boiled something in a pot. It smelt plain, but not repulsive. Some kind of porridge.

“Oi!” he greeted. “Thought ya’d sleep the whole day away! _Enjoy yerselves?”_

Because he was trying to be a better person – and because Rutledge could fit his whole neck in one palm – Hanzo resisted the urge to dunk the man’s face into the boiling pot. Just.

“Coffee.” He demanded. Rutledge grunted and handed him the pot, still half-full and with a crack in the glass near the lid. A mug followed. His mask had been set back in its place.

“Many thanks.”

He poured it out and took a sip. It was black, with no sugar or milk, but he didn’t complain. He knew it was likely the best they had, and although he could be cruel, he wasn’t _rude. _

A few minutes later, a fully-dressed McCree – sans the hat and serape – joined them. He yawned into his fist and sat next to Hanzo, too close for comfort. His body still radiated heat. He felt a sudden and jarring urge to lean in. He brushed it off.

What was that? McCree was, at most, Genji’s close friend. It must’ve been the warmth and proximity, along with Hanzo’s embarrassingly long dry spell. McCree was attractive, sure, but no level of attractiveness made up for an obnoxious personality. No, it was just idiotic biology and circumstance. He let it go and focused on more pressing issues, like how hungry he was. 

Junkrat handed out a bowl of porridge to each of them, also plain. Rutledge took his and marched back downstairs, the trapdoor closing behind him with a _hiss._ Hanzo felt for him; although he handed out sympathy sparingly as a survival tactic, living like that mustn’t be easy.

The drive out to the slums where Montgomery was hiding was much like the one before. Hanzo watched in the dawn light as the suburbs grew smaller and smaller. Once that had faded, there was only flat red dust. Finding your way on this continent must be difficult; he wondered how these operatives managed.

The sun rose slowly, as reluctant to wake as McCree had been. It was red and angry, like an open wound. They bounced along an invisible road, sending up a dust cloud behind them.

Hanzo was still smushed into Rutledge’s side, but McCree had taken the spot of yesterday’s crates, and sat opposite him. He leaned back against the side of the cab, and Hanzo was certain he would fall off. He never did.

As the sun’s rays reached them, it set McCree on fire, lighting him from behind with a bloody halo. He kept his hat low on his face, hand fixed over it to keep it from flying away, and he tapped Peacekeeper’s grip. He had changed from yesterday. Then, he’d been friendly and relaxed. Today, he was ready to work.

And then they were in a town.

Much like arriving in the suburbs, it was as if they’d stepped straight into another place altogether. One moment, there was nothing but outback. Then they were surrounded by tin roofs, piles of trash, and the smoke of people making breakfast. This wasn’t an old suburbia; this was clearly an informal, post-crisis settlement. No planning, no plumbing, no protection.

They stopped a minute or so into the slum. They slowed considerably, and Fawkes backed the car in-between a sheet of tin and a large red rock. Rutledge threw a tarp over it for safekeeping, and they set off on foot.

If they garnered attention, people responded by backing up and taking a different route, away from them. Alternatively, they shut and locked their doors, boarded their windows, or simply ducked into a thin alley between shacks and hoped for the best.

When they found the place Montgomery was hiding, they split up. He and McCree slipped around back, while Rutledge and Fawkes approached directly. Their ‘plan’ was so simple, Hanzo was certain it would fail. By some miracle or divine blessing, it didn’t.

Rutledge broke down the door, and it gave with a harsh rip of metal. Fawkes’s cackling carried over to them from the front. Predictably, the man bolted out the back of the shack, and right into McCree’s waiting fist.

Hanzo was tempted to kill him. He already had an arrow notched, and no-one would stop him. Certainly, no-one would mourn. But they would get a bonus if he came back alive, and his time spent travelling had taught him the value of money. Any they could get was good.

The man blinked up at them dumbly, swollen nose streaming blood. “Wha-?”

McCree yanked one of the man’s socks off – he himself had just rolled out of bed, apparently – and shoved it into his mouth, before tying the other around his head to keep him from spitting it out. He then made a _ta-da!_ Motion with his hands, looking at Hanzo for approval. All he got was a blank stare and an eye-roll, though that didn’t deter him.

He pulled out his zip ties and got to work making sure the man was incapacitated.

“Hmm.”

Hanzo looked at the doorway, and saw Rutledge’s massive form fill it. He had cleared his throat to get his attention.

“Mission accomplished,” Hanzo said. He hadn’t even had to fire an arrow, and was feeling pretty good about the whole thing.

Rutledge shook his head. “Problem,” he growled.

He shared a look with McCree, who frowned.

“Stay with this thing,” Hanzo said, “I will see what is wrong.”

McCree nodded, and he headed inside.

Once his eyes adjusted, he grimaced. The shack could barely even be called that. Light peeked in through gaps in the ‘walls’, while waste and garbage was heaped in the corners. His hand came up to his nose reflexively, but it didn’t help much.

Rutledge stopped in front of a side room, and pointed inside. He sighed, readied his bow, and stepped forward to see what was wrong. However, as he moved, Rutledge raised a hand and forcefully lowered Hanzo’s bow. At his questioning glance, Rutledge simply shook his head.

He debated writing the man off, but acquiesced. Rutledge wasn’t stupid, and Hanzo wasn’t in the mood to make enemies today. He reached over his shoulder and slipped the bow and arrow back into place, but he also slipped a _shuriken_ out of his sleeve. It paid to be cautious.

The moment he stepped over the threshold, a beer bottle whizzed towards his head. He dodged, and it shattered behind him. He kicked the door open fully, raised the _shuriken_, dove inside and-

Stopped.

It was a child.

He couldn’t have been older than nine or ten. He was aboriginal, with close-shaved hair. He was skinny and malnourished, and one of his wrists was handcuffed to the tap of a dirty porcelain bathtub. His free hand held a shard of glass the size of a playing card, and he gripped it so tightly, blood had started to drip from his palm, dampening his ripped jeans. His whole body shook.

Hanzo lowered the _shuriken_, keeping his movements slow. The boy’s eyes followed the movement with rapt attention, eyes only moving to his face once the weapon had been tucked away, and Hanzo raised his hands in what he hoped was a non-threatening manner.

His eyes were a brilliant shade of yellow, even brighter than Fawkes’s. while Fawkes had obviously been young enough for the radiation to affect his development, this child had been conceived and born here, and he had the trademarks to prove it. Mutations and slight physical quirks were common enough; along with the bright eyes, he had vitiligo spattered over his skin, especially around his eyes.

Hanzo glanced back at Rutledge. He shrugged and pointed one huge finger at him, as if to say ‘Don’t ask me. He’s your problem now.’

He eyed the boy up, keeping his hands in full view. Then he leaned back a bit to give him space.

“It’s alright,” he said. The boy was still terrified. A cold sweat had broken out on his brow.

“I’ll do it!” he croaked weekly, keeping the glass between him and Hanzo. “I will! I stabbed the other wanker, too! You can check!”

“You stabbed Montgomery?” he asked. His eyes drifted to above the old tub, where a mirror had been cracked apart. Little shards of glass where in the child’s hair and decorating his loose brown jacket.

The boy nodded, trying to look fierce, but not doing a very good job of it.

“That’s very brave,” he said, keeping his voice soft. He heard a slight jangle of spurs. McCree must’ve come around to see what the issue was.

“What’s your name?” he asked the boy.

He glared and refused to answer.

“Mine is Hanzo,” he offered, “We were just here for the man outside. I assume he kidnapped you from somewhere?”

Slowly, the boy nodded. “Sydney. Ya can see the ol' monument thing from where I lived. Why d’ya want him?”

By this point, he considered it safe enough to sit on the edge of the tub. “He’s dangerous. He hurt someone important. So, we’re taking him to the families of the people he hurt, so they can…do what they please with him.”

His eyes widened, and his expression went from fear to awe. “You’re bounty hunters,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Sometimes,” he replied, deciding to be honest. “We can take you home, if you like. It’s on the way.”

It was not on the way. Sydney was in the opposite direction as Junkertown. But he didn’t think anyone here would really mind.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“Two days. Maybe three,” he answered. “It was kinda hard ta keep track.”

“Were you hurt?”

He shook his head. “He didn’t do anythin’ weird to me. Not like you’re thinkin'. He kept me locked in his car till we got here, and then he put me here ‘n I stabbed him, so he didn’t try anythin' afterwards. He locked the door on me. Hasn’t been here since.”

Hanzo relaxed. That was good. Very good, in fact. He was out of practice in the comfort department, and really didn’t want to have a child who was traumatized for life on his hands.

“Excellent. Let’s get you home, then.” He reached for the boy, and nearly lost a handful of fingers.

_Too fast,_ he thought. _You moved too fast. _

“It’s okay,” he said.

The boy sniffed, wiping his nose, but still keeping the glass between them. “You’ll really take me home?”

He nodded.

“Wot’s the catch?”

Hanzo considered this for a moment.

“The catch is, you have to put the glass away. You don’t have to put it _down,_ but I don’t feel like being stabbed.”

The kid mulled this over, considering. He must’ve concluded that he’d have better luck with them than otherwise. He put the shard into the pocket of his old jacket. The cuff was no match for Rutledge’s solid grip, and in a moment, he could move freely. He let Hanzo pick him up without complaint.

“There,” he said, setting one arm under the kid to hold him up and the other on his back to keep him steady. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I can still stab you,” he replied.

Although he wasn’t much of a child person, he declared this one acceptable.

He turned to see Rutledge had backed away slightly, and McCree was now standing in the doorway. He was giving Hanzo an unreadable look. Fawkes stood behind him, expression mournful.

“I didn’t even get to blow anything up,” he whined as they filed out the door. Rutledge patted him on the back comfortingly as they went. McCree came last, as he had to fetch Montgomery and haul him over one shoulder.

“Aw, no worries, pal,” McCree consoled, looking not at all bothered by the extra two-hundred pounds on one shoulder. “You can blow something up next time. Pinky promise.”

The boy started pulling faces at Montgomery’s prone form as they left the shack. The outside hadn’t changed much, but heavy storm clouds had rolled in. they couldn’t have been inside more than five minutes. When did that happen?

“Got ourselves an electric storm comin’ in,” Fawkes said conversationally. “Prob'ly some acid rain, too. Better get goin’.”

They hiked back to Fawkes’s car quickly. They saw no people on the way, which made the whole scene a tad creepier. They agreed that the two junkers would take the child and head down to the coast, to see if they could find his mother. Meanwhile, he and McCree would take Montgomery (and his car) to Junkertown in order to collect the bounty. Fawkes and Rutledge weren’t welcome up there, anyway, and neither Hanzo nor McCree knew the way to Sydney.

Hanzo wasn’t totally comfortable leaving the child with them. They were well-meaning enough, but also unstable and somewhat chaotic. The child may very well be used to that, but it still concerned him. To his surprise, Rutledge lifted him into his arms slowly and gently, cradling him as if he were something precious. The size difference between the two of them was almost comically large.

Fawkes stilled some of his disordered energy to peer over at the kid. “Not ta worry, mate,” he said, “We’ll have ya back ta ya mum in a jiffy.”

“Okay,” he said. He turned back to Hanzo. “Thank you.”

He nodded, giving the child a small smile. They stood and watched as the three Australians bundled themselves into the car, and disappeared in a cloud of red dust. Thunder boomed somewhere above them as they faded from sight.

“Crazy bastards,” McCree muttered fondly. Montgomery made an _‘mph!’_ sound, and McCree responded by pinching a patch of exposed skin. Hard.

They drove throughout the rest of the day. Hanzo quickly noticed that there were no hovercars anywhere in Australia. In fact, aside from the holotech Fawkes and Rutledge had, he hadn’t seen anything built after the year 2050. Montgomery’s Jeep was no exception.

At the very least, it had a roof and cover, so when the rain began to fall, no-one got hurt. It also had tyres, because this place was trapped in the Stone Age.

McCree drove, because he knew the way. Hanzo’s only job was to make sure the tightly-bound Montgomery was still in the back when they got there. It didn’t skip his notice that McCree had gone uncharacteristically quiet.

“So,” he drawled at long last. He glanced at him, surprised, since for the last hour, the only sound had been the rain pattering on the windshield. “I didn’t know you were good with kids.”

Hanzo wondered what he was thinking. McCree’s face remained frustratingly blank. “It depends on the child.”

“Oh?”

“I learnt how to be an older brother before I learnt to do anything else.”

McCree didn’t try to continue the conversation, for which Hanzo was deeply grateful.

…

“Well, that went brilliantly!” Winston exclaimed. He was grinning widely, and although it was still unnerving, Hanzo was slowly getting used to it.

“We sent the four million through to the junkers earlier, along with the extra four thousand bonus. They said they’d love to work with you again. Something about Agent Shimada being...'pretty'?”

He looked between the two of them, confused. McCree guffawed while Hanzo remained stoic. He should’ve dunked Fawkes’s face into his porridge.

“By the way,” Winston glanced back down to his ‘pad. “Agent Fawkes mentioned picking up a kid?”

They nodded. McCree pulled himself together. “Did- did they make it ta Sydney alright?”

“Oh, yes. Though apparently, they were unable to find her mother. So, they’ve decided to keep her until further notice.”

“‘Her’?” Hanzo asked, at the same time McCree asked, “Wait, _‘keep’?”_

“They wanted to inform you her name is Max, and she was very grateful for the help. They’re hoping that by following the coast, they’ll bump into her mother sooner rather than later.”

“I thought she was a boy,” Hanzo said. She really had looked like one.

“They thought so, too. But in any case, the mission was a success. You two get the next week off to recuperate, barring emergencies. And your pay for the mission has already been sent through.”

“Great,” McCree said, “Can we go back to the part where Junkrat and Roadhog adopted a small child?”

Hanzo shook his head. He had a migraine building behind his eyes. He’d been sober for too long. For an easy milk run, this mission had left him surprisingly worn out, and on top of all of that, his face was sunburned tomato red.

He decided to ignore Winston and McCree’s back and forth, and to fetch himself a drink. He'd earned it.


	3. A Girl Worth Fighting For.

“Okay, okay,” McCree said, raising his hands placatingly. His cheeks had turned red, and he was struggling to keep his laughter in check.

They sat up on the walkway in the training room, sharing a bottle of whiskey. A few agents were training alone, despite the late hour; Baptiste ran on a treadmill, Seventy-Six was in the shooting range, and Lieutenant Amari was in the boxing ring.

Hanzo wondered if he should be bothered by the lack of privacy, but he decided he didn’t care. Instead, he focused on McCree, who took another swig from the bottle.

“Ready?” he asked with a grin. His hat sat skew on his head, and most of his other accessories had been stripped off at some point. He rubbed his hands together, then made the best poker face he could manage after a bottle-and-a-half of whiskey.

“I have a bachelor’s degree in Western History. I once tamed a wild mustang. And I’ve only been in love once in my life.”

Hanzo studied him closely. He himself had maybe drunk too much, but he could still be discerning. McCree’s face gave away infuriatingly little. Wasn’t alcohol supposed to make it _harder_ to lie?

“There is no way you’ve only been in love once,” he declared confidently. “That one’s the lie.”

There was a pause. Then McCree grinned widely.

“That was _true?”_

“Yup,” he answered, popping the ‘p’. “I had my fair share of puppy crushes, sure, but there’s only one person I properly fell in love with. It’s weird ta think about now, to be honest.”

“Who?” he demanded. He wasn’t used to being tricked. People _tried,_ sure, but they rarely _succeeded._

McCree rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Ana Amari, actually. But this was way back in our OG days.”

“Really? Wasn’t she married back then?”

“Yeah. But that didn’ really help me much. I was a dumb punk from a gang, and she treated me like a human being. It was a low bar, maybe, but it was more than enough fer me.”

Hanzo considered him in a new light. Maybe he’d written McCree off too quickly. He turned out to be witty, excellent at holding his liquor, and he had a surprisingly rich history. Maybe getting to know him better wouldn’t be so bad.

He asked, “What was the lie?”

McCree’s smug grin returned. “I have a _master’s_ degree in Western History.”

If Hanzo could’ve rolled his eyes into the back of his head, he would’ve. McCree laughed.

It had been three days since they’d returned from Australia. In that time, their interactions had gone from awkward to bearable. In fact, Hanzo had discovered that if you were looking to do anything interesting, McCree could normally improve on the experience. That was why Hanzo deigned to join him for a drink.

Which had become two drinks. Then three. Then- honestly, he lost count somewhere around drink number nine.

“My turn.” He shuffled around so that he sat cross-legged in front of McCree, and took a sip from the nearly-empty bottle. He met McCree’s eyes steadily.

“I was three years old the first time I committed a crime in my family’s name. I once seduced a princess in a neighboring crime family without knowing who she was, and nearly started a gang war. And I’m the person who was responsible for Genji’s horrid green hairstyle.”

McCree analyzed him. His smile disappeared, and his brow furrowed. He stared Hanzo down with surprising intensity. He fought the urge to fidget under the gaze. Had it grown warmer? It felt warmer. It must’ve been the alcohol. He’d better have some more.

“The princess,” McCree said, smiling softly. “That one’s the lie. We both know Genji was the family slut.”

Hanzo choked on his whiskey. He was even more surprised than McCree at the laughter that escaped his mouth. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d really laughed at something. The whiskey must’ve been stronger than it looked.

“I’m right, ain’t I?” McCree said, “I love it when that happens.”

“Why?” Hanzo asked, trying to pull himself back together. “Because it’s such a rare occurrence?”

“Harsh. And here I thought we were _bonding.”_

Hanzo snorted. He felt light and loose, and not just because of the alcohol. He might have been caught up on the _bonding_ jab if he were sober, and realized that he was actually letting someone get close; but it didn’t even occur to him now.

“So,” McCree leaned in closer, “what horrid crime did yer family make three-year-old Hanzo commit?”

“I never said they _made_ me do it,” Hanzo corrected, “I said I did it _for_ them. There’s a difference.”

McCree raised an eyebrow, waiting patiently.

“It was a packet of instant ramen. From the supermarket. My mother said she was hungry, and I had no concept of the Law of Equivalent Exchange.”

McCree double over laughing, holding his stomach. It set him off again, and it took them both a few minutes to compose themselves. Every time they almost did, they locked eyes, and wound up back where they started.

“Wow,” McCree said, when they started to actually settle. “I…I don’ know what I was expectin'.”

Hanzo shook his head, leaning back against the walkway to help catch his breath. His face ached from all the laughing, which was an alien sensation. They went quiet for a while after that, simply enjoying the relaxed atmosphere. Then Hanzo remembered he’d wanted to ask McCree something.

“Have you heard from Fawkes and Rutledge yet?”

“Oh, yeah,” McCree’s smile grew. “They haven’t found Max’s mom, but they _did_ find out what happened. A gang war kicked up, pushed all the non-members out a’ the city. The three a’ them are followin’ the coast now, headin’ West, hopin’ the people did the same.”

“You know, I could’ve sworn she was a boy. I should apologize when I see her again.”

“’S okay,” McCree leaned against the railing, “I actually asked them 'bout that. Thanks to the radiation, a lot of the kids bein’ born in the outback are actually intersex. One of those mutations. Max is one a’ them. She picked female pronouns, ‘cause that _sounded_ right, but she doesn’ fall into either category.”

Hanzo nodded. He hadn’t known that; very little of his education reached beyond Japan and the surrounding countries.

“Is she doing alright?”

“She was a li’l cagey at first, 'a course, but she’s really loosened up around them. They actually seem excited to have her, if the nose ring they gave her is anything to go by.”

“Nose ring?” he asked, horrified. “Did they give her anything _else?”_

“I think Junkrat mentioned a hunting knife. Why?”

“Her mother’s going to love that, isn’t she?” he lay back down with a sigh.

McCree chuckled. “Yeah. But at least they care. That’s the big part; no caretaker actually knows what they’re doing, so it’s the tryin’ that matters.”

“Do you speak from personal experience?” Hanzo asked. It sounded like he did, and thirty-seven was more than old enough to have a child. The thought was odd to apply to McCree, but still valid.

“No, no. Not personally. And I didn’t have the best example, as fathers go. But my old CO, Reyes; he looked out for me. He probably came the closest, even though he sure as Hell wasn’t perfect. Now’er days, even the stuff he did mess up is kinda just…background noise. He was one 'a the only people who really _tried_. I remember that more clearly than anythin' else.”

Hanzo mulled over his words quietly. Their conversation had taken a sharp turn from pleasant to brooding. Fortunately, he didn’t have to try and comfort him, as his holopad went off.

_Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep._

A twin alarm came from McCree’s ‘pad. He cussed and fished the thing out from his pocket.

“Why is it doing that?” Hanzo asked, grabbing his ‘pad and glaring at it. He didn’t know how to turn the thing off yet, and intimidation didn’t seem to be working.

“Mission alert,” McCree groaned. Then he turned to him, clearly trying to sober up best he could. “Uh…here, lemme-”

He switched the alarm off on Hanzo’s ‘pad, and opened his messages for him. There was only one:

_Mission alert. Bomb threat. Russia. Fitting required – Mrs. Lindholm en route. Time of arrival: thirty minutes from now. Prepare as needed._

_-Winston._

“Fuck,” McCree fell backwards onto his back with huff. Hanzo nodded his agreement, shakily standing, and braced himself to drag McCree to their briefing.

…

Mrs. Lindholm was no gentler the second time around, but at the very least this fitting wasn’t accompanied by death threats. Also, he wasn’t on the stand, because his measurements hadn’t changed in the last three days. Progress.

McCree was her current hostage, while Hanzo stood to the side, arms crossed. He tried to shake off his feeling of unease. McCree hadn’t helped much; he had climbed onto the platform like a condemned man heading for the gallows. But Mrs. Lindholm had said her piece, and was now perfectly polite.

Dr. Ziegler was the one giving them their briefing, sitting at the desk while Mrs. Lindholm walked around.

“Sorry to drag you off your break early, boys,” she said, “but it’s an emergency. We need the best.”

“And that’s us?” Hanzo asked.

“For this particular mission, yes. You two have the best eyes.”

McCree interrupted. “Long as you don’t mind us gettin' the briefing hungover, ’s good by me.”

Both of them had steadily become crabbier and crabbier. The transition from drunk to sober was not fun, even at the best of times.

“Stay still,” Mrs. Lindholm snapped, grabbing his hips and forcing him to stop swaying. It was the third time she’d had to do so since they started. Then she poked him in the stomach.

“You have widened. You need exercise.”

“Rude.”

“But true.” She shifted the tape measure from his gut to his chest. “Color?”

“Pard'n?”

“The tuxes are all identical, but the bow-ties can be any color. Pick one.”

“Um,” McCree thought hard. “Red.”

“Excellent. Shimada-san?”

“Hm?” he jarred. He’d been listening, but had slowly started to black out. He had no idea what she wanted. He looked to McCree for clues, and caught him mouthing the word ‘blue’ at him.

“Blue?”

“Very good.” She stood, returning to her desk. “You are both free to go.”

_Finally,_ he thought. He sent McCree a thankful look, and began to turn away.

“Oh!” Angela said, “One more thing. You both have to shave.”

“What?” McCree asked in time with Hanzo’s “Sorry?”

“Shave,” she repeated. Now that he looked at her, she looked very tired herself. Her hair was a little loose, framing her face, and the bags under her eyes had their _own_ bags under them. “You both. Your hair is fine, we can style that. But you need to be cleanshaven.”

“C’mon,” McCree moaned, grimacing.

Hanzo stroked his goatee. He used to be cleanshaven as a rule, but had grown the van dyke to blend in. He had hoped it would help keep the clan from easily recognizing him. Still, after a time, he’d felt an odd attachment to it.

“Sorry,” she said, “It’ll grow back. And you’ll stand out too much otherwise.”

“A’right,” McCree agreed, sounding dangerously close to a pout.

Hanzo would worry about this later. When Athena woke him up. Yes, that was a good plan. He wasn’t going to leave his bed unattended to any longer.

…

Being on this side of the party was certainly unusual.

He had been to countless expensive social events in his life. Both the traditional, quiet parties his family had held, and the modern, red-carpet affairs his wealth had bought him invitations to. But in none of those had he been a member of the _waitstaff. _

The suits were identical to each-other; simple black-and-white three-piece outfits, marking them as people the guests could boss around. Each time he was dismissed with a wave of the hand, or summoned by someone snapping their fingers at him, he felt a fresh wave of hatred for his past self. If he hadn’t already killed the clan in revenge for Genji’s slightly-exaggerated death, he would do it now on behalf of anyone who’d ever had to work for him.

The only spots of color on any of them were the bow-ties, which were a range of colors and patterns. His was the same shade of blue as his sash, while McCree’s was the same as his favorite red serape. Unfortunately, Hanzo now knew the man well enough to know he actually _had_ a favorite serape.

Having him around felt weird. They’d been conversational beforehand, but whenever he and Genji were in a room together, he would place himself between them; like a human shield. It had been sweet, but frustrating. That behavior stopped once they made it back from Australia; the last three days had been much better.

It was…nice.

He picked up his tray of drinks and resisted the urge to scratch his face. Shaving had been quick, but he didn’t like the result. He looked the same age as he’d been when he’d tried to kill Genji. His brother’s reaction had been subtle, but there; he’d jumped. It was far from his fault he'd done so, but Hanzo was in a sour mood over it all the same.

McCree himself was unrecognizable. Without the beard, he could’ve been a full ten years younger. His hair had been groomed into a bun at the back of his head. In his pristine formal wear, and with his suddenly perfect posture, he could’ve been a whole different person.

The guests were introduced as they arrived, so as soon as the others joined in, he would know. Aliases were mostly unnecessary; Dr. Ziegler was high-profile enough that she warranted an invitation, as was Lieutenant Amari. Lucio was with them as well; as a music connoisseur, his presence hopefully wouldn’t stand out too much. Though people would probably enjoy guessing why a DJ deigned to fly to Russia just for a ballet. 

Agent Zaryanova stood watch on the roof, in camo gear, with a cannon. She was no longer welcome in her home country after her fallout with Katya Volskaya. She would be back-up should something go wrong.

Lucio was the first in. Mrs. Lindholm had outdone herself; he wore a forest green three-piece suit, Italian, that showed his ankles. Hanzo barely heard the announcement over the yelling of the reporters outside. He smiled at everyone as he entered, but it was clearly fake. He quickly started circulating, chatting people up.

These missions suited him. He was nervous, sure, but he had a sharp wit and a sound mind, and the nerves would become more manageable with experience.

Then, about ten minutes later, Lieutenant Amari entered. She wore her military uniform, as did many other officials here, so she didn’t stand out. Her suit was a dark tan color, made up of a pencil skirt and tight blazer. Her shoes were black and shiny, matching her black stockings and beret. Three medals sat on her breast, and the cuff-links glinted gold. She looked stunning, but fortunately, barely anyone reacted to her presence.

She casually milled with the guests, often military officials specifically. He tried to make his way over to her; he and McCree not only had to identify potential plants, but also had to make sure no one slipped anything into the agents' glasses. this was easiest to do when they just gave them drinks personally. McCree had been doing so for Lucio on the other side of the room.

Agent Zaryanova’s voice spoke in his ear. _“You are doing vell, Lucio. One vould think zis vas _your_ homeland.”_

“Thanks,” he replied. He had pretended to take a call, so as not to look suspicious. “I try. But it’s nothing like Rio.”

_“I know.”_ She paused. _“You must miss it. No matter your past, home is home. Even now, it feels right. Being here.”_

“I do,” he sounded sad. “I miss it. A lot more than I thought I would.”

An ache settled deep into his chest. This party, the conversation; memories he’d long since shoved away floated back into his head. Dancing with his father, standing on his shoes, the two of them laughing. Him, Genji, and their mother sitting in a small garden. Waiting for their father to finish so they could go home.

Them leaning against a sakura tree, their mother sipping champagne, while her long, slim dragon took corporeal form and wrapped around the three of them. Her name had been Saké; the dragon, that is. He thought it sounded lovely, and only realized what saké actually _was_ a good deal after her death. It had confused him, but a dead woman could offer no answers to his questions.

The smell of her perfume, the sound of Genji snoring from where he’d buried his head in her lap. It all rang in his head with startling clarity. The dragons writhed uneasily under his skin.

He swallowed hard. _Here and now,_ he thought. _Focus. _

Fortunately, he found a distraction. He made it to Lieutenant Amari miraculously unscathed, and straightened himself up. he held out his silver tray expectantly. 

“Thank you,” she said, giving him a smile as she plucked a glass of wine from him. He moved to walk away with nothing but a simple nod, but he stopped when he saw her expression change.

She looked over his shoulder at something, and dropped the glass.

It shattered on the floor, startling him. He almost – almost – dropped the rest. He blinked at her, and saw her staring hard at the door. She looked stunned. He turned in time to hear the announcer make an introduction.

“May I present Dr. Angela Ziegler, of ze Swiss Institute for Medical Research.”

The doctor was angelic. She wore a simple, silky white dress that hugged her figure tightly. It was held up by a halter, wrapping around her neck like a collar. It hung loose from her hips downward, ending at her ankles. It had a slit starting above each hip and flowing all the way to the ground. She wore ivory-colored high heels and carried a fancy white and gold clasp.

The Lieutenant made a choked sound. She finally realized she’d dropped her wine. Fortunately, none had spilled onto her suit.

Hanzo quickly dropped to the floor, using the dishtowel hanging at his hip to try and mop up some of the mess. Two other waiters came and helped, and they quickly cleared everything up.

“Sorry,” she said, blushing to her roots. “Sorry. It was my mistake.”

“It’s okay,” he said. He turned back to see Dr. Ziegler looking over at them curiously. McCree appeared next to her like a ghost, offering her a glass of champagne, and she turned to accept it.

The dress had no back. At all. There was only the halter holding it up, a long expanse of creamy white skin, and then the base of the dress cutting in just in time to keep her decent. To his surprise, a tattoo of a pair of wings, spread like she was in flight, decorated her shoulder blades.

He looked back to Fareeha as her eyes went wide. He didn’t think she could blush any harder, but apparently, she could. He caught on quickly, and couldn’t quash his smile.

He plucked another glass off his tray as he picked it up, and handed it to her.

“Careful, Miss,” he said, getting her attention. “The stems can be slippery.”

She accepted the glass in a daze, then caught the look on his face. She came back to herself, shooting him a glare.

“Thank you. I believe someone _over there_ just ran out of wine themselves…”

He gave a short bow and left, smile still firmly on his face. He could almost feel her debating whether or not it would be worth it to peel off a shoe and throw it at him. Fortunately, she didn’t.

He went back to the bar to fetch more glasses, ‘accidentally’ winding up next to McCree. While he had kept his composure for the sake of the mission, McCree’s grin could only be called shit-eating. If the Lieutenant saw that, someone _was_ going to be beaten with a shoe tonight.

“Aww,” he said, “Ain’t that just the cutest thing ya ever saw.”

He frowned. “Cute? Sweet, maybe, but not _cute_.”

“Ah,” McCree scratched his jaw. “You didn’t know ‘Reeha as a kid. If you had, you _would_ think that was cute.”

Hanzo turned, leaning back against the bar to look out against the crowd. He found Lucio entertaining a small group of older couples with a story, and then found the Lieutenant again, idly sipping her wine. Then, she tipped her head back, drained the whole thing, and marched purposefully in the doctor’s direction.

He and McCree shared a quick look, before focusing completely on her. She gracefully navigated the crowd, and stepped in front of Dr. Ziegler.

“Ah,” she said, “Lieutenant Amari. It’s lovely to make your acquaintance again. Are you alright?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” she accepted Angela’s handshake, but instead of dropping her hand after, she brought it to her face and kissed her knuckles.

Angela’s smile dropped away, and her face turned red.

“And likewise,” Fareeha continued.

McCree whistled low, breaking his concentration. “Smooth, sis.”

Hanzo raised an eyebrow. McCree seemed to be enjoying this, probably too much to be honest.

McCree turned back to him, and then seemed to remember something. His smile fell away.

“By the way,” he said, gesturing subtly, “Your nine O’clock. Asian guy. Should I be worried?”

He glanced in the way McCree gestured. He noticed the man immediately. He was short, portly, and sweating hard. He fidgeted with his collar, and Hanzo saw the edges of tattoo sleeves poking out on his hands.

“Fuck,” he swore, glancing away.

“Thought so,” McCree groaned, “Yakuza?”

“An old associate of my father’s. He hasn’t seen me since I was a child, but they all know my face. If he sees me, he’ll know me.”

McCree traded his tray for a full one, then handed it to him. “Head to the bathrooms. They’ll be going in soon. We’ll phase you out then.”

He nodded, accepting the tray and moving to the bathrooms. He got rid of the glasses on the trays of waiters he passed, ignoring their sharp looks, and managed to duck out of sight.

He wanted to stay. The team could manage without him, but he didn’t want them to have to. Still, if he was recognized among Overwatch agents, they’d be in even more trouble. And that was assuming he hadn’t been recognized already; the man _had _been nervous. Maybe Hanzo had something to do with that.

He waited underneath the bathroom window opposite the door. Winston asked for a minute to trip the motion sensors, and then he would be able to climb out.

_You could just kill him._ The thought popped into his head. But no; that would cause too much of a ruckus. And what about the team? They had just started warming up to him. A cold-blooded murder would probably throw a wrench in the works. irritated, he tugged on his bow-tie till it loosened and took several deep breaths. 

_Beep._

He looked up. The motion sensor’s light flicked from red to green.

Time was up; he would have to take things as they came. He clambered up and out in an easy, fluid motion. He’d report the issue to Commander Morrison later, and keep the good faith from his teammates he’d earned so far.

…

The mission went flawlessly. Almost.

The bombs were located and disarmed, the perpetrators were rounded up, and all the while, the patrons of the event remained oblivious. The only mess-up was one brazen terrorist who got a lucky hit in at McCree. His black eye was far from serious, but from the way he complained, you’d think the man had been shot.

The ride home was celebratory for everyone else, though Hanzo kept to himself. He felt bad for not being able to help, even if the alternatives could’ve been worse. He mulled over the man; how nervous he had been, and the tattoos. If Hanzo had seen them, he would’ve been able to pinpoint which clan he was from, and his rank. The fact that he couldn’t recognize him had him on edge.

Why had he been upset? It may have been work strain, or a nervous disorder; or, he could’ve seen Hanzo, and had been waiting for the inevitable assassination attempt. One that never came.

“Han?” McCree asked. He sat next to Hanzo on the jet.

“Relax. I’m sure the guy would’ve done something if he’d recognized you. First drinks on me when we get back.”

The others cheered at his offer, and Hanzo managed a smile. Mulling would do him no good; he would ask Genji if he knew the man, see if he could track him down. Beyond that, what could he do? He may as well let it go.

…

“I lived in France for a year despite speaking no French whatsoever,” said Hanzo, cradling his beer. “I had a debilitating fear of dogs as a child, and I look exactly like my mother.”

McCree was almost cross-eyed from their night of drinking. His brow furrowed, and he glared at him as if trying to unbend a corkscrew with his mind.

“Um…your mum. That last one. That was the lie.”

“You are _pissed drunk,”_ Hanzo groaned, “How could you tell?”

“I’m good at lies,” McCree answered, swaying slightly. He beamed. “It’s a gift. Like my shooting. I’ve just always been good at it.”

“That’s not possible. You have to _practice_ those things. They don’t just _happen_ to you.”

He shrugged. Hanzo wanted to punch the smug look off his face, but he didn’t have the energy. They’d been drinking together for the last few hours, staying up much later than everyone else. He had only planned on having one drink – one – but that was about ten drinks ago now.

McCree sat on the counter of the island in the kitchen, while Hanzo – a sane human being – sat on the barstool. They were both a little passed buzzed, and he probably should’ve called it quits by now, but he was actually having some fun with this. 

“My turn!” McCree declared, “I…once lost my arm to Lena after a night of drinking. I almost punch out the Strike Commander at a funeral. And…I’m a black belt in judo.”

Hanzo snorted. “The last one. No man your size needs to be that good at judo.”

McCree laughed like what he said was hilarious. “True. But I was a malnourished kid who kept getting his ass kicked by Gabe in basic training, and Ana took enough pity on me to teach me. I got good because I thought it would impress her.”

“So…the arm was the lie?”

McCree stopped laughing, brow furrowing. He groaned. “Wait. One of those was meant to be a lie, weren’t they?”

“Tell me they’re not all true,” he pleaded.

McCree cringed.

He sighed. “Fine. The judo I understand. Even the funeral. Grieving is painful. But how did Lena get a hold of your arm?”

He chuckled self-consciously. “I was really hungover this one mornin' back then. Lena was a shiny new cadet, and Blackwatch and Overwatch would sometimes bunk together. I didn’t want to get up, and I said something like, ‘Man, I’d give my left arm for a coffee and some Advil.’ And she asked, ‘Are you serious?’ and at the time, I was. She refused to give it back for a week.”

He laughed. He’d been doing that quite a bit lately.

“How did you finally get it back?”

“I had to steal it. She’d hung the thing over her bunk like a trophy. She was pissed, but I got her some good tea and some chocolate, so she eventually forgave me.”

McCree smiled at something far away, likely lost in the memory. Hanzo had only heard a few previous stories of Overwatch, but most of them were like that; funny, eccentric, and uplifting. There was a reason they called it ‘The Golden Days’.

“Since you’re too drunk to lie,” Hanzo broke the silence, “What was that between Dr. Ziegler and Lieutenant Amari?”

McCree threw his head back in a belly-deep laugh. “Oh, _that_. Back then, Angie – she’s my age – was a combat medic. Fareeha was about twelve to her eighteen, and since Angie mostly served with Jack and Ana, they knew each-other well. I wasn’t paying much attention, but even _I_ knew ‘Reeha had the biggest, _cutest_ crush on Angela. She would do that thing – writing their names together on her homework, and then drawing hearts around it? Yeah, that.”

“And Angela?” he asked, smiling.

“Oh, she never reciprocated back then, ‘a course, but she could make Fareeha sit through her flu shots and do her math homework, so Ana left them together a lot. Then Overwatch got disbanded…”

Some of his good humor faded. “They all moved on. When we came back here, things were different. Angie hasn’t changed much, but Fareeha _definitely_ has. She went from braces and pigtails to two-hundred pounds of muscle and a good six inches of height on most of our agents. And I’ll bet money ‘Reeha never properly got over her crush.”

Hanzo considered this for a moment. “Then why aren’t they together? If they’re both willing to give it a shot, what’s holding them back?”

“Us,” McCree answered sadly. “They met when ‘Reeha was still a kid. I know what we’d think of them bugs Angie a lot. Plus, if it came out ta the public, it could nuke her career; accusations of child-grooming and pedophilia go a long way in destroying someone’s life.”

He nodded. The mood had dropped, becoming more somber than enjoyable. It was sad, when he thought about it; especially because if Dr. Ziegler had tried something back then, it would never have remained secret. All Fareeha’s guardians were snipers, spies, and covert operatives. They would have realized sooner rather than later. The simple fact that Dr. Ziegler was still alive proved she hadn't done anything.

“Can’t say Fareeha’s style is bad, though. She can be smooth when she wants to be.”

Hanzo went to take a sip of his beer, only to find the bottle empty. Huh. When did that happen?

“I ought to head to bed,” he said, “If another mission is dropped on us, I’d rather be sober.”

“Ain’t a bad idea,” he hopped off the counter-top, somehow staying on his feet. “I’ll handle the dishes.”

He handed McCree his bottle to throw away, not really thinking too hard. Their hands brushed slightly as he passed it over, but when he moved to pull his hand back, he couldn’t. McCree held it in a gentle but firm grip, looking much more serious all of a sudden.

“McCree?” he asked.

He responded by lifting Hanzo’s hands to his lips, and kissing his knuckles. It was a chaste thing; barely a brush. But his skin tingled where the McCree touched it. His eyes gleamed, and it was suddenly much warmer in the kitchen.

They stood like that for a moment, with Hanzo pinned to the spot. Then McCree seemed to come back to himself. He quickly dropped Hanzo’s hand and said, “Uh- G’night.”

He power-walked to the sink and turned the tap on. The sound of water pouring down the drain jarred him out of his trance. He left, walking back to his room with a very strange feeling in his chest.


	4. At Last I See The Light

_“So, nothing?” _Hanzo asked in Japanese.

Genji shook his head. Hanzo imagined his brow furrowing, like when he was a kid and he’d failed a level in a game three times in a row. 

_“Athena scanned through facial recognition, but the name the man joined under was an alias. She couldn’t find a proper trace of him in any database. I’m sorry.”_

Hanzo sighed. _“It’s alright. It may be nothing, in any case. Though I would advise caution in the future. The remnants of the clan wouldn’t hesitate to come after Overwatch.”_

_“You don’t need to tell me,”_ Genji replied. They drifted back into silence, and Hanzo was pleased to find it wasn’t as awkward as it used to be. Having something to hate in common turned out to be an excellent bonding experience; and for them, that was the clan.

They knelt in Genji’s quarters. Hanzo had been told they all had ‘officer’s quarters’, as there were more than enough, even though ordinary agents normally got the barracks. But because of how few Overwatch agents there now were, the barracks gathered dust. The Watchpoint had actually been built to act as a military base in case of a renewal of the Omnic Crisis.

It had one large hanger bay able to hold twenty orcas and one Boeing 747, five cafeterias to serve one hundred people apiece, and fifty barracks to hold ten people apiece. Along with this, the base had five communal bathrooms that could each hold one hundred people. Of all of these, only one of each was on offer; those closest to the meeting room, or Winston’s ‘playroom’. The officer’s quarters (of which there were fifty) were all right next door to said playroom, so they were neatly tucked against each-other should something happen. The only medbay, forge, training room, and storage facility open were those that wrapped protectively around the central room.

While the barracks were essentially five small bunkbeds in one room, officers had a space to themselves and an actual bed. Although, ‘cot’ might have been a better word. Those who decided to really settle in quickly brought actual beds to replace them.

The rooms themselves were about average size. On the left was a table that opened out into the wall, fitted with a kettle, a sink, and tap. Drawers were set above that, for whatever food one wanted to keep there. Ahead was the bed, its headboard (if it had one) pressed against the far wall. To the right, was general living room-type set-up. A couch was given, and right next to the door was a HoloTV.

Genji was among those who personalized. The bed was replaced; wooden, wide, and low to the ground, like back home in Japan. A nightstand sat on either side of it. A traditional tapestry of a green and blue dragon making the infinity symbol with their bodies hung above the headboard. The couch was gone, and instead, meditation mats were placed in front of the TV. It was set to some channel playing flute music. In front of the mats was an empty incense holder, and since an effort had clearly been made to keep the place professional, he didn’t mention the wireless gaming consoles he could see under the TV.

On either side of the bed was two doors; one lead to a small bathroom, and the other opened up to a closet and storage space. The counter to the left, along with the doors, had been replaced with the same hardwood as the base of the bed, and altogether, it made a beautiful room. Everything was in shades of green, yellow, beige, and brown.

On one nightstand, two pictures sat; one of them and their mother as children, and one that was a Blackwatch group photo. All four figures were dressed in black, greys, and reds. Standing in the middle was Commander Reyes, one hand on a young McCree’s shoulder. McCree had a smile, and was miming tipping his ridiculous hat, cigarillo pinched between his lips. Genji stood to their side, face obscured. In the back was Moira O’Deorain, smirking at the camera like she knew something nobody else did.

_“What are you thinking about?”_ Genji asked.

_“Our past,”_ Hanzo answered, smiling. _“Do you remember those parties father would throw? When we would hide under tables and prod the elders’ ankles with forks?”_

Genji made a sound that could’ve been a chuckle. _“I do. And our mother would tell them they were imagining things?”_

Hanzo hummed. Those were good memories; safe ones. Shared happiness tinged with mutual grief. They hadn’t touched on the rougher things yet. And speaking of rough things…

McCree. Hanzo would distract himself in a multitude of ways, but his thoughts would often circle back around to the cowboy. He had become a… well, _problem_ was the wrong word. But he couldn’t think of a better one.

Hanzo had been avoiding him for the last week. He didn’t quite know what to make of him. He wasn’t stupid; he knew McCree had an interest in him. A man didn’t compliment a teammate’s seduction techniques, and then pull those same moves on someone else, and _not_ make their intentions clear. What bothered Hanzo was what to _do_ about it.

He’d considered that it was just the alcohol talking, but that didn’t fit. He’d been drunk before; it revealed feelings and made them harder to hide, but it didn’t make them up out of thin air. No, McCree wanted something from him. Something a touch more primal than money or influence.

Hanzo had two options here: either fight it, or go with it. Going with it sounded good, at least on the surface. He’d have to be blind not to notice how handsome McCree was. But what then?

He had some romantic experiences. Not as much as your average thirty-eight-year-old, sure, but enough. Enough to know he was the type of person to go all in once he started. A philosophy he traced back to his earliest archery lessons.

His teachers had always advised caution when shooting; you could stop a sword mid-swing, or pull a set of _nunchaku_ off their course, but you could never un-shoot an arrow or gun. if you wanted to fire, you had to be one-hundred percent sure you knew where your target was, and whether or not you should even take the shot.

He’d forgotten that lesson only once; while he was fighting Genji. They had fired at each-other, aiming to kill, dragons being summoned from the depths of their souls. But then they had caught each-other’s eyes. They realized what they were doing at the exact same time. Hanzo saw clearly through his rage; saw that for all his anger, he didn’t actually want Genji _dead. _

Genji had swung too hard, too high, and sent his dragon straight into the ground. It left him completely open.

If he could’ve, Hanzo would’ve done the same. But he couldn't. He could only watch as the dragons collided with him full force. 

Hanzo had drawn a similarity to his own self. When it came to relationships, he didn’t enter them unless he knew he could take it all the way. And as reliable and handsome as McCree was, could he? Could he take it all the way?

Hanzo didn’t know. And that was enough to make him pick Option A: Fight it.

Two days after their mission, when they were both well rested, McCree asked him for another drink. Hanzo had made up some excuse about arranging to spend the day with Genji, and McCree had left him to it. He asked again two days afterwards, this time watching Hanzo closely. He made another excuse.

McCree never asked a third time. During training and missions, he was friendly. They still bantered, and worked well together. But as soon as the mission was over, McCree backed off, and Hanzo didn’t chase after him.

It was considerate of him to realize Hanzo didn’t want to spend time with him, and to leave to keep him comfortable. It also stung much more than Hanzo had anticipated.

He was startled out of his musings by a beep from Genji. For one hysterical second, he thought the sound had actually come _from_ Genji. Thankfully, it came from his holopad. He pulled it out to quickly check his messages, and seemed to perk up.

“Ah,” he sounded pleased. “Do you want to meet someone?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“An old friend.”

Genji stood, and Hanzo followed suit.

…

Genji lead them both to the hanger bay, which was wide open. The sun had just begun rising, painting the sky orange, through to pink, and then purple. Cotton candy-colored clouds drifted along the horizon, keeping the sun from blinding them as they approached the cliffs on the open side of the hanger.

The orca was there, sitting contentedly to the side. The large craft looked tiny in a bay the size of a soccer stadium.

By the entrance to the base, Hanzo saw McCree. Or, more accurately, McCree’s back. He considered running, but decided it wouldn’t be worth it. His serape and hat were absent, as they usually were when he wasn’t on a mission. His battered armor glinted dully in the light, and his boots needed a clean. He looked plainer like this, a little less large, but no less striking.

When they were a few meters away, he turned to them and grinned widely.

His stubble was almost prominent enough to be the start of a beard. His face was much better; the swelling was gone, and the only trace he'd been injured was a splotch of yellow and green under his eye. He looked pleased to see them both, and Hanzo tried not to feel sick.

“Howdy! Look who decided to show up!”

He stepped aside to reveal their guest, who up until then had been blocked from view by McCree’s broad shoulders.

Wow.

His first thought wasn’t ‘omnic’ but ‘angel’. They were pristine, cased in seamless white plating. Their face was bright blue, clearly a hologram, but warm and welcoming all the same. They had a petite button nose, and wide, expressive eyes. Their face was heart-shaped, and their body full of dramatic, sloping curves. Behind them, two large, white, wing-like machines hovered in the air. They were exquisite.

Genji bowed deeply. “Echo-chan. It is good to have you back again.”

Hanzo mimicked him, bowing, but stayed quiet. He wasn’t sure he could speak to them without choking on his words.

“It’s good to see you, Genji,” they replied. Their voice was feminine, and they had no particularly strong accent he could pick up on, but they did sound very American. They bowed in return; a dainty, composed motion. They then smiled straight at him, head cocked to the side slightly in confusion, and he reflexively straightened up.

“Echo,” Genji said, “This is my brother, Hanzo. Hanzo, this is Echo; she was an old Overwatch agent we were having some trouble finding.”

“It wasn’t like I ran away,” Echo said, _“I_ couldn’t even figure out where I was, let alone how to work my way back.”

“A good thing, then, that McCree has a better sense of direction than you do.”

She gave him a look, and he chuckled slightly. Then, she turned back to him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hanzo,” she said, extending one slim, grey hand.

“Likewise,” he answered, shaking it. It was surprisingly cool; she looked so human he was expecting her body to be warm as well.

“Welp, Winston’s waitin' to debrief you,” McCree said, offering her an arm. “You ready?”

She slipped her arm into his before turning back to them. “Tell me,” she asked, “is he really a monkey-scientist, or is Jesse teasing me again?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to see for yourself,” Genji answered, sounding very amused.

She huffed. Somehow even that gesture, which would’ve been condescending on anyone else, seemed pleasant.

“Thank you for being as much help as you usually are, then. I’ll see you both later.”

The two of them trailed off, leaving the brothers in the hanger bay. The sight of them made something ugly wrap itself around his ribcage and begin to squeeze. It was a completely unexpected reaction, since she’d been so nice to him. She had to have known who he was; after all, Genji only had one brother. Why would he feel sick watching her walk off with McCree?

“She’s lovely, isn’t she?” Genji asked him, eyes still on the two.

“Yes,” he answered, pleased his voice remained level. As he spoke, McCree darted forward aways, opening the door for Echo. Even at this distance their voices carried over, thanks to the shape and size of the bay.

“Thanks, Cowboy,” she drawled, “How did I ever manage without you?”

He mimed tipping his hat, grinning proudly, and she shook her head at him.

The two of them were so different. They looked as if they’d stepped out of completely different time periods, and behaved in such a different manner. But they seemed to click. In fact, seeing them disappear inside, she reminded him a little of a stereotypical southern belle; dainty, put-together, witty, and sharp.

“…do you think?”

_“Hmm?”_ he asked, turning his attention back to Genji. Who, apparently, had been talking to him the whole time. What was wrong with him?

He got the sense Genji was staring at him with an eyebrow raised, unimpressed. _“Did you miss your morning coffee?”_

_“Yes,”_ he replied. _“Apologies. You were saying?”_

Genji continued to give him a look, before sighing. _“Another time, maybe.”_

_“No, no,”_ Hanzo backtracked quickly. What had Genji been asking him? Was it something important? _“I apologize. I’ve been distracted lately. I do want to hear what you were saying.”_

_“‘Distracted’?”_ he asked, _“What by?”_

He paused for a moment, considering, before deciding that no, he wasn’t ready to talk about it.

_“It’s a long story,”_ he said, _“For another time. you were saying?”_

For a moment, he was sure Genji would just walk away. Then he said, _“I was planning on visiting _another_ friend. I was wondering if you’d like to come with me?”_

He nodded. _“I would. When do we leave?”_

“As soon as you are ready.”

…

Genji was being difficult.

Hanzo didn’t understand why. It might have been to get back at him for being distracted earlier, but he’d apologized. Twice. It couldn’t have been that big of a deal.

Taking off in the orca had been fine. Genji had become a trained pilot in Overwatch as a necessity; neither Reyes nor O’Deorain could fly, and the look on McCree’s face when he’d been asked placed him squarely on the ‘never allowed to become a pilot’ list.

It was only once they started talking that Hanzo became agitated.

_“Where are we going?”_

_“To Nepal.”_

Great. That was all right.

_“Why are we going there now?”_

_“Lieutenant Amari returned from her mission last night, and Echo is back; today is the first time in a while where two agents can be spared for a few days.”_

Perfectly valid and acceptable. No reason to be aggravated.

_“Who are we meeting?”_

_“I told you. A friend.”_

_“Which friend?”_

_“You don’t know him. But a good one.”_

_“What’s his name?”_

_“I’ll introduce you when we get there.”_

He snapped. “Why are you being so _evasive?”_

“Why are you being so _impatient?”_

Hanzo grit his teeth, biting back a scathing remark. He didn’t like this. This behavior reminded him a little too much of the old Genji; the indirect, cowardly one Hanzo remembered from their youth. As bad as he felt for what he’d done, and all their fighting, he still held to his opinion of Genji’s behavior. The sleeping around, drinking, and drug abuse was tolerable; every family had a black sheep. But his refusal to admit he had done anything wrong was what clawed under his skin.

The old Genji hadn’t owned up to a single thing in his life. He was a sweet-talker, just like their mother had been. He diverted, he deflected, and he avoided confrontation. He lied, manipulated, and cheated. Never once did he stand his ground.

The only time he hadn’t run had been their last fight. Hanzo hadn’t expected attacking Genji head-on to even work – after all, cowardly didn’t mean unskilled, and Genji was damn fast when he decided to be. The fact that Genji struck back had been a shock.

He blamed their father. Maybe that was cruel, but he did. Hanzo was born to be heir, and he looked the part. There was absolutely nothing of their mother in his face, and all of their father. Everyone crooned over how alike they were. But Genji had been born amid controversy; he looked exactly like their mother, and nothing like their father.

A few elders and advisors, along with business associates, had recommended a paternity test. Women could be such frivolous things, couldn’t they? _You’ve been gone on so many business trips, and all her bodyguards are male. Have you considered the possibility that something occurred?_

Their father had shut those rumors down harshly, but looking back on it, Hanzo wouldn’t be surprised if their father had also had questions. He was far too proud to ever admit the possibility of it, even to himself, but he had treated Genji differently compared to Hanzo. Maybe it was just that Hanzo was heir; maybe there was more. Dead fathers were as good at answering questions as dead mothers were.

All of that hadn’t boded well for Genji; from the beginning, he had been judged and belittled, and in some cases even mocked. Although none of their tutors could abuse him, they all sat on the edges of their seats, waiting for confirmation that he was a bastard. Then they could all say, _‘See! I told you so! That boy was nothing but trouble!’_

When he had started rebelling – back-talking, ditching lessons, and the like – Hanzo had actually supported him. He hadn’t understood the nuances of what was happening at the time; all he knew was that they were making his little brother feel bad for no decent reason, and Hanzo would’ve done the same.

But that was only until their mother’s death. Hanzo had been forced to step up as his father’s second-in-command, and Genji’s behavior drastically worsened. It should come as a surprise to no-one that he and their mother were close. Vandalism, substance abuse, trespassing, and an orgy or two with some businessman’s equally rebellious delinquents; and he had never suffered for it.

For all their father’s faults, he had loved their mother more than anything. Their marriage had been arranged, sure, but they learnt to make the best of their situations together. So, whenever the clan’s guards or the police had dragged Genji home, and he would look at their father with their mother’s bright eyes and hide behind her long, silky hair, everything would be forgiven. And when Genji got off with a proverbial slap on the wrist, he would reward their father with their mother’s beaming smile.

In the meantime, Hanzo would have to take an hour more each day of _aikido_ for a month because at the last training session, his foot had been a touch out of place.

He swallowed hard. His temper was rearing up again, and if he didn’t nip it in the bud now, he would do something he’d regret. Underneath his skin, the dragons writhed.

He breathed deeply. He could trust Genji; he knew that. But they both had a penchant for miscommunication, so he had to at least try and maintain the peace.

“I’m sorry I snapped,” he said, being sure to keep his voice level. At some point, they reverted back to English. Probably because they were both used to it, having spent so much time with Overwatch. Unless they were one-on-one with each-other, they always spoke English. 

“It’s alright,” he answered immediately, equally soft. “Why are you so concerned?”

It was a simple question. Direct. Slowly, he forced his muscles to relax.

“It’s not your fault, nor is it really fair, but I’ve…always disliked it when you dodged questions or talked circles around people. It reminds me of all of the times I’d catch you sneaking back into the castle, and you’d pretend you hadn’t done anything wrong.”

“Really?” he asked. Fortunately, he didn’t sound upset. “I suppose I did do that a lot, thinking about it. Did it really offend you that much?”

_“Offend_ is the wrong word,” he answered carefully, “It’s just…a matter of accountability. If I did anything wrong, at all, I was punished immediately, and was expected to accept it gratefully; no matter how severe. You- in one night, you once broke into a man’s house, seduced his daughter, and drove his car into his swimming pool. Do you remember that?”

He could hear Genji’s smile in his voice when he spoke. “I do. That was a fun evening. What of it?”

“Do you remember your punishment for it?”

He cocked his head to the side, as if in thought. His fingers tapped the jet’s controls. “No. now that you mention it, I don’t.”

“You _weren’t_ punished. That was the problem. Nothing you ever did carried any consequences for you, while for me, misspelling a word on a letter meant hours more making up for it. It drove me absolutely _mad.”_

Genji went still. He mulled this over quietly for almost half-a-minute. Hanzo could almost see him combing through old memories, comparing their experiences together.

“Oh,” he said at last. “I…never noticed.”

Hanzo sat up straight. He stared at Genji, trying to figure out if he was joking or not.

“‘Never noticed’,” he repeated. “What do you mean you ‘never noticed’? How could you _not_ have?”

“I assumed you got all the attention. Father spent half of every day with you. Training, eating, or otherwise simply being in each-other’s presence. I never got that. I didn’t think it was all bad.”

He mulled that over. “It wasn’t…all bad. But it wasn’t bonding. It was training. I would carry on the Shimada name. he wanted to personally ensure his heir was as perfect as he could get them. There was no affection involved. He saved all that for _you.”_

_“Me?”_ he asked. “What made you think he even had time for me, when he spent twelve hours a day with _you?” _

“Didn’t he? He got you out of every problem. You never had to worry for anything. I’m certain you got every piece of affection the man had in him.”

“Then he didn’t have a lot at all,” Genji said firmly, ending the conversation.

Hanzo leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. He glanced at the time in the dashboard: 08:19.

Was that too early in the day to start drinking?

…

They stopped at the base of a mountain.

They were in the Himalayas, though beyond that, he had no idea where they were.

“Is your jacket fastened?” Genji asked as he opened the door. Immediately, icy air flooded in, and he couldn’t quite bite back a shiver. He zipped his warm parka up to his neck, and added the goggles, scarf, and beanie he had gotten with it. They were a part of a set given to him by Mrs. Lindholm, who was contracted to make a suit for every climate. Each agent got the set. There was stealth, desert, underwater, and most relevantly, the tundra, including formal ware. Their casual clothes and uniforms were up to them, unless commissioned otherwise.

“Yes, mother,” he deadpanned. He fastened his gloves and threw his quiver over his shoulder, fastening it into place. He added his bow and followed Genji outside.

It was beautiful, in a barren, isolated way. It wasn’t snowing, and the wind didn’t blow too hard, but the cold cut through the thermals in his clothes with a vengeance. Heavy black clouds hung over them, and the snow was knee deep. It melted as he stepped through it, seeping into his boots. He curled up tighter, shoving his hands into his armpits, and stepped into Genji’s footsteps.

He moved much more easily than he did, his metal dull in the diffused light. The black ribbon tied to the back of his head waved in the wind, like a flag on a flagpole. The green lights built into his suit glowed slightly.

Finally, Genji broke the silence. “I’m sorry for being vague. I didn’t know it bothered you so much.”

He shook his head. “No. I overreacted. I’m sorry.”

“This friend of mine,” he continued, hopping up a small snowbank. “He…is very important to me. I wouldn’t know what I would do if you disliked each-other.”

“If he is as good a person as you are implying, I doubt there will be a problem.”

He nodded. “I’m glad. For the record, his name is Tekhartha Zenyatta. I met him during Overwatch’s hiatus, while traveling through the area. While Jesse saved my life, and Angela my body, Zenyatta helped heal my soul.”

Hanzo stalled, staring up at him. He blinked, processing Genji’s words. After a time, they continued on up the mountain in silence.

They climbed for about an hour. The mountain wasn’t steep enough to require climbing equipment, but not everyone could’ve managed without. He didn’t complain, but he was beginning to freeze. He couldn’t feel his fingers and toes anymore, and he was caught up imagining how amazing a bowl of ramen and a fleece blanket would feel. Then, they moved up another ledge, and the world opened up.

There was a large, ornate temple crafted right into the side of the mountain. The stone was grey-brown, and it was massive. The entrance was about twenty-five feet away, and the front door was the same length high. Rich green plants grew everywhere, and the sudden color change temporarily blinded him. Cobblestone paths made circular patterns between the plants, leading into the temple and to either side, off around the mountain.

Animals roamed everywhere. Little deer, cats, dogs, and donkeys wondered around, just within eyesight. Birds flittered in the branches of trees. Up here, the clouds were thinner, more like a light mist. The light from the sunset was orange-yellow. It was beautiful.

“Thoughts?” Genji asked.

“It’s lovely,” Hanzo answered.

Then, two omnics walked out of the temple, strolling down the path. They were tall, a good six feet, like most omnics, and were the same make as each-other. They wore colorful garments in the native style. One wore reds and yellows, the other purples and blacks, and the latter held a jar in their hands. Both had a necklace made of heavy metal orbs about the size of tennis balls.

Genji stood up properly, hopping up onto a cobblestone path. Hanzo scrambled to follow. The omnics noticed them immediately, and the one in red and yellow perked up.

“Genji,” He said. There was a smile in his voice, if not his face. “I was unaware you were returning. It is good to see you.”

Before Genji could reply, he turned to his companion and whispered, _“Hide the honey.”_

At least, that was what Hanzo thought he said. But that made very little sense.

The one in purple immediately tucked the jar behind his back. It was obvious, but he acted perfectly innocent.

Genji bowed deeply, and said, “Sensei. It is good to see you as well.”

He gestured to Hanzo, who also bowed. “This is my brother. I’ve told you about him.”

The two turned to him, their blank faces revealing nothing of their thoughts.

“It is a pleasure,” the omnic in yellow said, bowing back. “I am glad you’ve decided to join us.”

After a moment, the air became tense. It was a feeling he was familiar with when it came to meeting Genji’s friends.

“Hanzo,” Genji said, “This is Zenyatta and Ānandatta.”

His tine was soft, but there was a note of warning there. A ‘don’t embarrass me in front of my friends’ tone that Hanzo usually used on him.

“It’s good to meet you,” Hanzo said, “My brother told me you are very dear to him, and I owe you a debt for helping him the way you did.”

He bowed again, hoping that was good enough for now.

“Your brother was, and continues to be, a gift to our home. We are glad to include you in that description as well.” Zenyatta said, and Ānandatta nodded firmly.

He didn’t know how to respond. He was saved from doing so by Genji, who stepped in.

“I realize we should’ve called in advance, but we received surprising free time. Also, Jesse ran out of his supply of the honey here, and he threatened to disown me if I didn’t buy him more.”

The two omnics spoke in unison. “What honey?”

There was a long pause. Genji’s mask slowly turned to Ānandatta.

“‘Nan…” he said warningly. Ānandatta held his gaze for a moment longer, like a deer caught in headlights. They stood perfectly still.

Then Ānandatta turned and bolted with surprising speed, the jar tucked under they’re arm like a rugby ball. Genji was hot on their heels, tearing after them with enthusiasm.

_“Wait!”_ he cried, laughing, “I just want to talk!”

Hanzo gaped as they vanished inside and around a corner. And he had the nerve to warn _him_ off?

Zenyatta laughed. It was a surprising sound to hear from an omnic.

“He is doing better and better each time I see him,” he said, stepping next to him to glance at the direction they’d run. “It’s good to see.”

“If there is a problem with the honey,” he started. “I could talk to him…”

“No, no. it’s alright. It’s a running joke here. He actually brought us the beehives we make the honey from, and he always overpays.”

Hanzo nodded. Zenyatta guided him inside, showing him around. The ground level of the temple, which he had now pegged as the famous Shambali Temple he’d heard of on the news, was all sleeping quarters. They allowed easy access to the gardens, for their more restless guests. Higher up, they had the kitchens, bathrooms, storage spaces, and workshops. Zenyatta explained that every living thing was welcome here, and that everyone had a right to a cot, food, and support.

“Is that how Genji made his way here?” Hanzo asked. They were strolling through the middle of the temple. There was a straight path from the front door – where they’d appeared – out the back. On the way, they passed other omnics, all of the same make as Zenyatta and all in the same type of clothing in various colors.

The animals strolled around, absolutely fearless. As he watched, a pink-clothed omnic with flowers painted on their casing walked by, followed by a trail of sunny yellow ducklings. A handful of exotic parrots flew overhead, and a small red feather fell loose and drifted towards him. The color was lovely, so he plucked it out of the air and tucked it into his parka. Zenyatta gave him an unreadable look, but said nothing about it.

“Yes,” he answered, “Your brother was wandering through. A blizzard hit unexpectedly, and his supplies were low; so, we invited him in. He has never given us cause to regret our choice.”

He was surprised by the pride that surged up in his chest at the words. He couldn’t really take responsibility for Genji’s actions, but he was thrilled at how far he’d come. Not many could do what he’d done. But he had.

“I’m…surprised I was received so warmly,” he started, not really wanting to bring it up. “After what I did…”

“You concern is valid,” Zenyatta said, still walking peacefully next to him. He, like the others, walked with perfect posture, hands tucked behind his back. “However, Genji himself says it was a moment of blind fury that he had reciprocated, and that his own behavior and circumstances had much to do with it. He insisted he wants you back in his life.”

After that, he could think of nothing to say. They walked until they reached a small room identical to the others on the ground floor. It was right next to the wide garden on the other side of the temple from where they’d started.

“Your brother’s room is right next door,” Zenyatta said. “The cafeteria is right above you. If you need anything, or find things aren’t to your satisfaction, anyone here would be willing to help you. However, we often have other guests here like yourself and your brother, so we must ask that you offer them the same courtesy they would offer you.”

“Of course,” Hanzo said. “Thank you.”

Zenyatta bowed, and strolled away. Hanzo went into his room and found it sparse; just a cot, a pillow, a nightstand, and a small vase of flowers on said nightstand.

He was almost crushed by a wave of exhaustion. An hour hiking and climbing the Himalayas piled atop the stress he’d been suffering from lately did a number on his endurance, and the sight of the cot was the last straw. He stripped out of his clothing, surprisingly warm, and collapsed into a deep sleep.

…

Dinner that night was gorgeous. Everyone ate outside, in the gardens, with little wooden bowls and spoons set in their laps. Most of the temple’s occupants were omnics, but a few humans were present, all of them seated under a sakura tree. The wind was cool, but not too cold, and it blew the brightly-colored clothing the omnics wore around their metal frames.

Funnily enough, he felt good. He had no headache, despite the altitude they must be at, and he could breathe easily. it made no sense, but he was quickly coming to see that the omnics here had a special connection to the world around them and the energy that flowed through it.

There were three other people present, discounting himself and Genji. As soon as he’d risen from his nap, and had stumbled outside, he’d been summoned to join them.

Genji gestured to the others in turn. “These are the temple’s other guests. This is Avashnee, and her twin brother Aaron.” The twins were both locals, about nineteen or twenty, and they gave him short bows from where they sat.

“And this is Dr. Mei Ling-Zhou. She is Overwatch’s best research analyst.”

She also gave him a bow, and a bright, friendly smile. "It's not that impressive," she said apologetically. "I'm actually Overwatch's _only_ research analyst right now."

"That is still quite an achievement," he replied, sitting down.

The food was excellent. Plain, but sweetened with honey, and with a side of fruits from the garden. It took all his years of self-discipline and training not to take more. As they ate, they spoke, and Hanzo listened to them with interest.

The twins were both from a village twenty miles down the mountain. They came here for the honey the monks made. They did this once a month or so, in return for warning the monks of any trouble heading their way, and bringing them fresh clothing and whatever they couldn’t make or grow here. They spoke barely any English and no Japanese, but they were both warm and welcoming.

Dr. Zhou, however, was much more interesting. Her occupations included, but were not limited to, climatologist, yeti-hunter, researcher, and Sleeping Beauty impersonator.

Genji later told him her ordeal was far worse than she let on, and after hearing the unabridged version, he agreed. Without meaning to, he grew very fond of her.

The next morning started with sunrise meditation, which began right after seeing the twins off with their honey. The meditation was incredible, and it came easier to him than it had in a while. He was surprised to find Genji taking to it even faster than he did. This place had a brilliant effect on him.

Following that was chores, which everyone was expected to perform. Hanzo didn’t mind; the mind-numbing physical labor left him feeling content and at peace.

He swept floors. Mei followed close behind him with a mop, dodging the little animals. Genji had already gone on ahead, his job being collecting animal droppings to add to the compost heap out back. All the while, Mei cracked jokes and encouraged him to brighten up, which he eventually did. She had a bright air about her that spread contagiously. He found the time slipped by without either of them noticing.

After lunchtime, they could do as they pleased. He found Genji with Zenyatta, who he stuck to like glue when he could. He lay with his head in Zenyatta’s lap as the omnic meditated, hands tucked behind his head and one foot propped on his knee. They spoke quietly to one-another in Japanese as they rested though Hanzo couldn't hear what they were saying.

Even more surprising was Ramen, Genji’s small green dragon. He had taken corporeal form. he hadn't noticed till now, but it had been quite a while since he'd seen either of their dragons. The beast had wrapped himself around Zenyatta’s neck like a living scarf.

Ramen was a lovely dragon; a bright, lively green. He was a true Japanese dragon, with small, deer-like ears and horns that sprouted from his head. He had a long, low, lizard-like body. If Genji stood and held his arms out in a T-pose, Ramen would be able to stretch from fingertip to fingertip. Half of his body was just tail, with a long tuft of fur at the end. He had long whiskers, and fur stretching along his back in a stripe and sprouted under his chin. His fur, whiskers, and tail were tipped off in bright red.

As he watched, Ramen stretched, jewel-like scales catching the rippling sunlight, and slid into Zenyatta’s arms. He peered down at the beast, cocking his head to the side. Ramen’s long, forked tongue flickered out, and he curled up in Zenyatta’s arms like a baby.

Hanzo frowned, unsure what to think.

The dragons that passed from Shimada to Shimada had a unique set of behaviors. They reflected the true feelings and desires of their hosts. For each Shimada born, a dragon came into being, and would be summoned and bound to the person through a tattoo when the time was right. Each warrior had one; save for him. He had two. This was likely a result of having had a twin who was never born. Their father thought it was a sign that he would be truly great, but it had only ever made their mother sad.

As far as Hanzo knew, whatever the Shimada wanted to do, but couldn’t, the dragon would do for them. It was mortifying most of the time, and made lying or keeping secrets almost impossible.

As far as dragons themselves went, Hanzo only knew of a few. The first belonged to Haruki Shimada, his grandfather. His dragon had been the size of a normal dragon and then half over again, and bright gold. His name had been _Kōtei,_ Japanese for _emperor. _since the colors yellow and gold were only reserved for a monarch.

While his grandfather had been the man to join the yakuza, and to take the clan from a small outlying village to a wealthy and feared syndicate, Kōtei was friendly. In fact, his grandfather had found his wife, not through an arrangement with another clan, but because Kōtei had found a pretty young farmgirl and refused to leave her alone. Eventually, he was forced to simply take her with him once he left, and that was that.

Haruki had gone on to have one, and only one, child. He himself said he had no sexual attraction to anyone; not men, women, nor any other group of people. He deigned to have a child solely for the sake of an heir. He decided on Kokona – the farmgirl – because Kōtei liked her, and he found her many assassination attempts against him charming. Hanzo never received a good explanation as to why she kept trying to kill him, but the acts of violence faded as they aged, so at some point in time she must have decided she liked him.

That child was Yume Shimada; their mother. She had been forbidden from leading due to her gender, and was constantly repressed through strict rules and high expectations. Despite being a Shimada through and through, she was never allowed to act like one. She wasn’t even allowed to name her dragon, on the account that it would technically become her _husband’s_ dragon when she married; at least in name.

She didn’t like that. When her father died, she was twenty-years-old, and named her dragon Saké just before the clan elders arranged her marriage. After her, there had been himself and Genji.

When they had to name their dragons, they had asked their mother what saké was. They were young, so she simply said it was a drink. Liking that, Genji had named his young dragon Ramen.

The elders had hated that. If Genji hadn’t already been disliked by them, that would’ve assured it. In solidarity, Hanzo had named his own dragons Udon and Soba.

“They’re very sweet together, aren’t they?”

Hanzo jumped. He hadn’t heard Ānandatta come up beside him.

“Pardon?” he asked.

“Them,” they replied, “It’s harder for humans to see, I know, but Zenyatta is always ecstatic when Genji visits. It seems the feeling is mutual.”

Hanzo turned back to them. Ramen had moved; he was now chasing butterflies a few feet away, though Genji and Zenyatta remained exactly where they were.

“Are they…together?” he asked uncertainly.

“I’m not sure,” they replied. “They very well could be. I doubt Zenyatta would say no if Genji asked, but he’s never been the type to push.”

Hanzo went quiet for a time, watching them both. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

“Hmm?”

“An omnic and a human. I didn’t know that could work.”

“It depends on the pairing. I’ve known humans to be willing to fuck anything that stands still long enough, and omnics, while not possessing the necessary _equipment_, were based on a human template.”

Hanzo blinked at Ānandatta, surprised. Who knew monks could be so crass? He wondered if he should be offended on behalf of his species, but he couldn’t be. He knew to many people to think Ānandatta was wrong.

Suddenly, Echo and McCree jumped into his mind. His gut twisted. They would make a lovely couple. They were both bright and gleaming in their own way, and would match up quite nicely. And they clearly liked each-other, in some way or another. 

He had no idea why that thought made him feel so ill.

…

After three days spent at Shambali, it was time to leave. Hanzo gathered his meager belongings, dressing up for the hike down, and went to meet Genji at the spot where they’d ascended.

Genji was already waiting for him, along with Zenyatta and Ānandatta. When he arrived, Genji turned and just about skipped over to him.

“Hanzo!” he greeted enthusiastically, “You’ll never guess who’s coming with us!”

Zenyatta gave him a small wave in greeting. “I hope you don’t mind. I’ve been hoping to meet Overwatch for a while now.”

“Not at all,” Hanzo answered, giving his excited brother a look. “I’m sure the team will be elated to meet you.”

“Of course they will be,” Genji said, sounding very much like he won’t give them a choice. “Now, since we’re all here and ready to go…”

He held his hands out to Ānandatta expectantly. The omnic sighed, then handed a very smug Genji two jars of honey.

“Thank you, ‘Nan,” he said, cradling the jars.

Ānandatta replied with a very rude gesture, and then a sweet hug goodbye.

With that, they descended, Genji sharing jokes and describing their teammates to Zenyatta the whole way down, and Hanzo trying not to dread the return to Gibraltar.

…

Introducing Zenyatta to the team had been either a mistake or an unprecedented success.

In the time they’d been here, the omnics had formed something of a clique. At first, it hadn’t been noticeable. They spoke a lot, and were definitely comfortable among each-other, but the appearance of Zenyatta had solidified the group.

It started with Bastion. Because of his size, Bastion was limited to the hanger, the gardens, and the bomb-proof bunker below the headquarters. Genji and Zenyatta had taken to meditating in the gardens in the morning, which of course, meant that Zenyatta and Bastion interacted some.

Zenyatta had spent an entire morning listening to Bastion, who had a very basic form of speech, explain his story. Zenyatta had wanted to know why a being designed for violence was so kind, and with Overwatch when they stood for opposite ideals. 

Bastion’s response had been simple, but Zenyatta had listened intently.

_BastionUnit#0054-00=temporary_decomission_(duration=20y.4m.13d)._

_BastionUnit#0054-00=acquire_ally_(gubernatrix_cristata#0001_“Ganymede”)._

_BastionUnit#0054-00=discover_ BastionUnit#0104-00._

_BastionUnit#0104-00=destroyed. _

BastionUnit#0054-00=emote-response_“pain”.

BastionUnit#0054-00=mission_reassignment_(assignment#0026=“avoid _contact”)

BastionUnit#0054-00=detect_intruder.

Intruder=homo_sapien#0027_“BrigitteLindholm”.

Redesignation_required. Redesignate=“intruder”~“ally”

_BastionUnit#0054-00=mission_reassignment_(assignment#0027=“ensure_ally_preservation”)._

Bastion then paused for a long time.

_BastionUnit#0054-00=discover_emote-response._

_Emote-response=“love”._

Hanzo didn’t really know how to process this. He had previously been apathetic towards Bastion, but this made him think otherwise. A good chunk of its story slipped over his head, as trying to understand Bastion was a learned skill; but for the most part, he deduced that Bastion had spent approximately twenty years in a temporary decommission, only to awaken, meet Ganymede, and discover the remnants of the other bastions. It then decided to avoid humans, but stumbled across Brigitte, the twenty-seventh(?) human it had ever met. It then chose to follow her and join Overwatch.

Zenyatta had responded by staying still and quiet for a long while. It was impossible to tell, as omnics had no tear ducts, but Hanzo got the impression Zenyatta wanted to cry.

Afterwards, Zenyatta went on to meditate with Bastion often, dragging Genji along with him. They became very close.

Zenyatta also met Echo, who had been honored to meet him. They were often seen walking the length of the Watchpoint together, speaking or simply enjoying each-other’s company. As she now handled the administration and general management of the base, along with being an agent when needed, she would often do her work while resting with both Zenyatta and Bastion in the mornings.

Then Lynx17 had joined them. It had, surprisingly, been Agent Zaryanova who’d recommended them for employment with Overwatch. They were a hacker, hyper-competent, and with a dry personality Hanzo liked. They often worked in the gardens as well, when the main computer room became too stifling. Chances were, they simply flocked to where the other omnics got together, since they were more used to omnics than humans.

Following that, ORISA would sometimes drop by. She had been offered a position, but she refused to leave her rebuilder – a twelve-year-old engineer named Efi Oladele. Her age meant that, of course, _she_ couldn’t join Overwatch. But despite the fact that neither of them were agents, they still stopped by sometimes. They liked Overwatch, and wanted to remain on good terms until they could properly join up.

When they did stay over, ORISA would rest in the garden with Bastion, as she was also too large to fit inside. Efi had trouble sleeping alone, and so would grab her favorite blanket and some pillows, and would curl up on ORISA’s back.

Zenyatta had asked ORISA about Efi one time, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the girl up. He had just been wandering about, and had offered to join Hanzo for a late-night meditation.

“I love her,” ORISA said simply. “She rebuilt me and helped me get my life back. She gave me a chance to help people. She is my best friend.”

“O-Oh,” Zenyatta replied. “Oh my.”

Hanzo was tempted to ask if he needed a hug. He looked like he did. Efi snored on, curled up on top of her devoted companion.

Later on, Genji told him he was glad he’d dragged Zenyatta here. He seemed happy.

Zenyatta adored his coworkers, and loved being the team’s psychiatrist. He says it gave him a sense of purpose and belonging he had been lacking, and it was all improved by being allowed to stay near Genji – a statement that absolutely, positively, did _not_ make Genji blush.


	5. Sorry!

Hi guys.

I'm so sorry about this, but in light of the recent drama involving Blizzard, I'll be postponing this fic.

It's hard to enjoy Overwatch the way i used to. Playing the game isn't fun anymore, and honestly never really was. Playing in and of itself isn't really fun; the enjoyment came from getting loot boxes and moving forward. That's really not enough anymore. I may come back to this later, but if anyone wants to take over, please contact me. If someone wants to adopt, that's cool.

Sorry again guys. 

_-Ray._

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write about my favourite ships. Sue me. This is just introductory, in the next chapter the real adventuring stuff starts. Enjoy!


End file.
